The sat-nav gave up on us somewhere between Nimes and nowhere, which is how I found myself reversing a hire car down a single-track lane while my wife read directions from a screenshot and the kids debated whether we were lost or "on an adventure." Spoiler: we were definitely lost. The mishap came when I confidently turned into what I thought was our track, only to discover it led to a goat farm. A very enthusiastic goat farm. By the time I extricated us from a small herd of curious Pyreneans, I'd aged about five years and gained a new appreciation for French farmers who clearly found the whole thing far funnier than I did.

We finally spotted the stone walls of the place in Quissac just as the late afternoon sun hit the vineyards, and I will admit to a small lump in my throat. Not from emotion, mind you, but from the sheer relief of not having to perform another three-point turn in front of livestock. The house sat there like it had been waiting patiently for centuries, which of course it had. Thick walls, wooden shutters, that particular dusty warmth of a place that only really wakes up in summer.

The key was exactly where the owner said it would be, which felt like a minor miracle after our navigational performance. The door creaked in that satisfying way old doors do, and we stepped into cool stone and the faint smell of lavender from a bowl on the windowsill. My daughter immediately claimed the bedroom with the view across the garden. My son discovered the pool and was in his trunks before I'd even found where the bins went.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment, just breathing. There is something about these old Languedoc places that makes you feel slightly ridiculous for rushing. The terracotta tiles underfoot, the beams overhead, the way light falls through small windows in thick golden bars. I had planned to unpack immediately, be organised, start the holiday properly. Instead I found a bottle of local wine left as a welcome gift and decided organisation could wait. We were on French time now.

My wife appeared with two glasses and that look she gets when she knows I need to sit down before I do something useful like fix a shelf or investigate a strange noise. We took our drinks to the terrace, which was really just some weathered chairs and a table under a vine, and watched the kids discover that French pools are somehow more exciting than English ones. Same water, different country, apparently enormous difference.

The evening brought that particular Languedoc stillness, the kind where you can hear insects and not much else. We walked the edge of the property as the light faded, the kids chasing each other between rows of whatever the neighbouring farmer was growing. I found myself thinking about how we always cram our holidays full of plans, sights to see, boxes to tick, and how this felt different already. The goat debacle had forced a kind of surrender. We were here, we had arrived by accident and stubbornness, and perhaps that was the only way to truly arrive anywhere.

Dinner was bread and cheese and tomatoes from the market we'd passed, eaten with our fingers because I couldn't immediately work out which box contained the proper cutlery. Nobody minded. The kids fell asleep with pool-damp hair and sun-pink cheeks. My wife and I sat out until the stars came through, talking about nothing much, which is the best kind of holiday talking.

I keep thinking about those first hours, the comedy of errors that brought us there, the way a place can slow you down without you noticing. We have a whole week ahead, and I find I don't much mind what we do with it. The pool, the terrace, perhaps a wander to the village for more bread. The goats, thankfully, are someone else's concern.