I should have known the sat-nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through a field near the Swiss border. There I was, bombing down what I genuinely believed was a proper road, only to find myself face to face with a very unimpressed-looking goat and a sign suggesting I was now technically trespassing on someone's front garden. Classic start to a holiday, that.

The journey from Calais had been mostly painless, if you do not count the bit where I forgot which side of the road to use at a roundabout near Besancon. A friendly local in a Citroen let me know with some enthusiastic horn work. But by the time I finally crawled into Pontarlier, I was absolutely knackered and in desperate need of whatever the French equivalent of a cuppa might be. Probably wine, if we are being honest.

Finding the property itself proved to be another small adventure. The instructions mentioned something about a gravel drive and a distinctive barn, but neglected to mention that every other building in rural Franche-Comte looks exactly like a distinctive barn. I did three laps of what I now know is a very small hamlet, each time passing the same chap walking his dog who eventually just stood there watching me with the amused patience of someone who has seen this exact scene play out a hundred times before. Third time lucky, I spotted the proper entrance, tucked behind a hedge that had absolutely not been there on my previous passes. Definitely the hedge's fault, not mine.

The gravel crunched satisfyingly under the wheels as I finally pulled up, and I will admit there was a proper moment of relief. The place looked exactly like the photos, which in my experience of holiday bookings is roughly as rare as hen's teeth. Stone walls, wooden shutters, that particular sort of rustic charm that makes you immediately want to pretend you live there permanently and have very strong opinions about cheese.

Then came the mishap. The key was supposedly in a lockbox, the code for which I had written down on my phone, which was now dead because I had spent the entire journey using it as a sat-nav backup after the main one tried to marry me off to that goat. I had a paper copy somewhere, of course. Somewhere very safe, as it turned out. So safe that I could not find it for a good twenty minutes of increasingly frantic rummaging through a boot that looked like a bomb had hit it. Three jumpers, a packet of digestives that had seen better days, and one lone wellington later, I found the code tucked inside my passport, which was in the glovebox, which I had apparently checked three times without actually seeing anything.

The lockbox clicked open with what I can only describe as smug satisfaction. I practically fell through the door, bags and all, into a kitchen that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and cleaning products. And I just stood there for a moment, absolutely still, listening to the sort of silence you simply do not get at home. No traffic, no neighbours arguing about recycling, nothing except the occasional cow making its feelings known somewhere in the middle distance.

The kitchen was properly old-school, all beams and flagstones, the sort of place that makes you want to immediately attempt something ambitious with local ingredients you have never heard of. I spotted a jar of something that might have been honey, left by a previous guest or perhaps the owners, and felt genuinely touched by the gesture. That is the thing about these places, is it not? Someone has thought about the details, has imagined you arriving tired and slightly broken by French roads, and has left a little welcome.

I made it as far as the sitting room before collapsing onto a sofa that was far more comfortable than anything that rustic has any right to be. Through the window, the Jura mountains were doing that hazy blue thing they do in late afternoon, and somewhere in the village a church bell rang. I thought about unpacking, about the sensible thing, the organised thing. Instead I sat there, digestives in hand, watching the light change and feeling very pleased with myself indeed. The goat, the roundabout, the hedge, the lockbox fiasco, all of it suddenly seemed like perfectly reasonable payment for this particular moment of peace.

Tomorrow I would explore Pontarlier proper, maybe find the local market, definitely track down some of that famous absinthe the region is known for. But for now, I was absolutely going to sit here, crumbs down my front, and do absolutely nothing at all.