The sat nav gave up on us somewhere between Toulon and complete confusion, which is how I found myself wedged down a lane barely wider than a baguette, arguing with my other half about whether the stone wall I'd just scraped was technically part of the property. Spoiler: it wasn't. The scrape remains my little contribution to the Provencal landscape, a memento mori in Renault Clio paintwork.

We'd flown into Nice, collected the car, and promptly got overexcited about stopping for supplies. Aix-en-Provence happened. Three hours, two cafes au lait, one accidental purchase of an entire wheel of Banon cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, and a lavender-scented soap collection that could scent a village later, we were hopelessly behind schedule. The cheese, by the way, proved catastrophic in a hot car. The smell when we finally opened the doors at Le Pradet was less "romantic countryside getaway" and more "farmyard incident."

The property itself appeared through a tunnel of oleander and olive trees, just as the light was turning that particular honeyed gold that makes Provence look permanently filtered for Instagram. I was too busy reversing away from an angry-looking cat to appreciate it properly. The cat, I later learned, belonged to the neighbouring farm and considered our terrace his personal sunbathing territory. We were merely his latest staff.

The key was exactly where promised, hidden in a key safe that required the dexterity of a surgeon and the patience of a saint. I failed on both counts, dropping it twice into a lavender bush that was absolutely thriving on last year's guest offerings, judging by the glint of metal beneath the purple spikes. My other half developed a sudden fascination with photographing a lizard while I swore quietly and inventively in two languages.

The front door opened with that satisfying weight of old wood, the kind that has witnessed decades of holidaymakers arriving slightly frazzled. Inside, the cool struck immediately, that thick-walled Provencal cool that makes you understand why people built like this before air conditioning existed. Terracotta tiles underfoot, beams overhead, the faint smell of previous guests' woodsmoke still clinging to stone. I stood there with our ridiculous cheese wheel and felt something unknot in my shoulders.

Then I walked straight into the coffee table. The lizard my partner had been photographing scuttled past in what I can only describe as smug judgment.

The kitchen welcomed us with the particular optimism of a holiday let: clean, well-equipped, and featuring a fridge that hummed with the determination of a small aircraft. We shoved the cheese inside with ceremonial reverence, opened the shutters, and finally stepped onto that terrace properly. The cat glared. The cicadas roared their evening chorus. Somewhere, a church bell counted out the hour without urgency.

I poured a glass of the rose we'd sensibly bought in Aix, spilling a generous portion onto my trousers in the process. The stone drank it without comment. My other half finally lowered his camera and laughed, properly laughed, at the state of us: sunburned already, smelling faintly of farm, wine-stained and wall-scraped and absolutely nowhere near the relaxed Provencal ideal we'd imagined.

But sitting there as the light faded and the cat deigned to accept a tentative stroke, I realised something. Those polished Instagram arrivals, the ones with flowing linen and effortless unpacking, they're fiction. Our chaos felt earned. The scrape on the car, the cheese disaster, the key in the lavender, the wine on the trousers, they were the actual holiday, the unfiltered version that nobody posts.

The cat began purring, which I chose to interpret as forgiveness for my driving. The cicadas kept up their racket. Somewhere in the village below, voices rose and fell over petanque. I poured another glass, more carefully this time, and decided that first impressions, like most things in Provence, improve considerably once you stop trying so hard.