I have never been so relieved to see a satnav give up as I was somewhere outside Dole, watching ours blink twice and die with what I can only describe as digital resignation. My partner, ever the optimist, had written down directions. On the back of a receipt. From a petrol station in Calais. I am not joking when I say the crucial middle portion appeared to involve a left turn at "big tree, maybe oak?" and something that looked like it might once have said "bridge" but had been partially smudged by a thumb that had clearly handled a croissant.

We found Mutigney eventually, of course. The village sits in that gentle fold of Franche-Comte where the hills roll about as enthusiastically as I planned to, and our stone cottage appeared down a lane so narrow I genuinely considered folding in the wing mirrors and holding my breath. The property, a proper old Franc-Comtois place with timber framing and walls thick enough to withstand a minor siege, was already doing that thing French cottages do so well: looking slightly smug about how long they have been standing there, completely unbothered.

The key was where the owner said it would be, which felt like a small miracle given our navigational record that afternoon. I turned it in the lock with the particular satisfaction of someone who has earned their rest through mild suffering. The door opened onto cool stone floors, low beams I immediately vowed to remember, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the previous week's walnut harvest. Somewhere in the garden, a blackbird was making a noise like a small mechanical fault.

Here is what I did for the first hour: stood in the doorway with a cup of tea I did not remember making, watching nothing in particular. The garden sloped away from the house in that effortless French manner, all rough grass and fruit trees and a wooden table that looked like it had hosted approximately four thousand aperitifs. A hammock hung between two trees with the confident looseness of something that knew its purpose. I had brought three books, a sketchbook I had not opened since 2019, and a pair of walking boots. The boots, I decided then and there, could absolutely do one.

The mishap with the satnav had done something useful, I realised. It had stretched out the journey just enough that arrival felt earned rather than merely convenient. I was too tired to be ambitious, too relieved to make plans. The afternoon light came through the kitchen window at that particular angle that makes even washing up look picturesque, and I found myself voluntarily drying plates while my partner dozed in the garden chair they had claimed with the speed of someone who understood the assignment.

We did not go anywhere that first evening. We ate bread and cheese from the village shop, drank wine that cost less than a London coffee, and watched the light change over the hills until the blackbird finally stopped its mechanical complaining and something else took over. I kept thinking I should look up what bird it was, what walking route we might try, whether there was a market day to note. I did none of these things. The books stayed in my bag. The sketchbook remained unopened. The boots sat by the door in silent, mutual understanding.

That first night I slept better than I had in months, in a bed that creaked with the honesty of old wood and proper springs. I woke to the same blackbird, now apparently repaired, and the realisation that I had absolutely no intention of doing anything at all with my day except continuing to do very little, very slowly, in this particular garden, with these particular trees, and this particular hammock that had absolutely seen me coming.