I have never been so relieved to see a sat nav give up on me as I was trying to find our holiday let in Schlierbach. We'd been driving since Calais, my partner Mark had insisted he "knew a shortcut" through the Vosges, and by hour four I was fairly certain we'd seen the same cow three times. Then the voice announced we had arrived at our destination while we were clearly parked outside someone's garage in what I later learned was entirely the wrong village. Mark, ever the optimist, knocked on the door anyway. A very confused Frenchman explained through his window that we were looking for the other Schlierbach, the one actually in Alsace proper, and that we were currently somewhere that definitely was not it.

We eventually found the right place by accident, which set the tone rather beautifully for the whole week. I'd booked what the website called a traditional Alsatian holiday home, and pulling up properly this time I was struck by how much it looked like something from a children's storybook. Timber framing, shutters that had seen better centuries, a garden that seemed to have arranged itself without any human interference whatsoever. Mark immediately tried the front door, which was locked, then tried the back door, also locked, then discovered the key was exactly where the instructions said it would be, which was apparently too obvious for either of us to check first.

Inside smelled of wood polish and something faintly herbal that I never quite identified. The kitchen had a proper range cooker that looked like it had fed generations, and I felt an immediate pressure to cook something impressive despite having packed mostly pasta and a vague ambition. We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person does when slightly delirious from driving and mild humiliation: we went for a wander with no particular plan.

This is where Alsace properly got its hooks into me. Schlierbach itself is tiny, barely more than a cluster of houses and a road that seems apologetic about its own existence. We turned left where we probably should have turned right, following a lane that narrowed until it was basically a suggestion between hedgerows. Mark was convinced we were walking towards a main road. I was convinced we were walking towards someone's private driveway. We were both wrong, which is my favourite kind of travel discovery.

The lane opened suddenly onto a small clearing with a single bench facing a view I can only describe as aggressively picturesque. Rolling vineyards, the distant suggestion of mountains, and a silence so complete I could hear Mark's stomach rumbling from lunch we'd skipped. There was no sign explaining what this spot was, no car park, no other visitors taking identical photographs. Just a bench and a view and the faint realisation that getting properly lost sometimes pays off better than any planned excursion.

We sat there longer than planned, which is to say we had no plan and therefore could not be late for anything. I found myself thinking about how rarely I allow myself this kind of purposeless wandering at home, how my usual holidays are scheduled within an inch of their lives, how I had genuinely knocked on a stranger's garage door rather than trust that technology might occasionally fail me. The Alsatian light was doing that golden thing it does in late afternoon, and I felt briefly and uncomfortably like someone who might be capable of relaxation.

Finding our way back took longer than expected because we tried to be clever about shortcuts, failed, and ended up approaching the house from an entirely unexpected direction. Mark was triumphant about this, as if we'd intended some kind of circular exploration rather than straightforward incompetence. I let him have it. The range cooker got its pasta eventually, eaten at the kitchen table while we planned absolutely nothing for the following day, which turned out to be the best plan we made all week.