I have never been so relieved to see a row of wooden holiday cottages as I was when we finally pulled into Hafendorf Zerpenschleuse last August. The journey from Berlin had been straightforward enough, or so we thought, until my husband's steadfast refusal to use the satnav saw us trundling down a farm track somewhere near Wandlitz, convinced we had found a shortcut. We had not. We found a very angry goose, a locked gate, and twenty minutes of silent fuming that only dissolved when our youngest announced from the back seat that she needed a wee "right now, not in a minute, NOW." Family holidays, eh?

The proper approach to the Hafendorf is far more civilised. You wind through pine forests and past lakes that gleam like spilled mercury, the sort of landscape that makes you forget Berlin exists at all, though it is only an hour away. Brandenburg does this trick of feeling utterly remote while being anything but. We arrived proper this time, tyres crunching on gravel, and I will admit to a small flutter of excitement. I am a sucker for a waterside property, and these timber-framed cottages sit right on the edge of the Oder-Havel Canal, which sounds grander than it perhaps is, though the boats puttering past lent everything a pleasingly continental holiday atmosphere.

Our cottage, one of the larger ones with space for the whole unruly tribe, had that particular smell of pine and cleaning products that immediately says "someone else has dealt with the spiders." I am not ashamed to say I checked. The open-plan living area was bright and simple, nothing fussy, which suited us perfectly given that fussy children and fussy decor do not mix. The kitchen looked capable enough for a week of sausage-and-potato-based cookery, which is frankly all I attempt when abroad. My culinary ambitions shrink in direct proportion to my distance from a decent supermarket.

The children thundered upstairs to claim beds before we had even set down the suitcases. This is standard procedure. I took my coffee onto the little terrace, which faced the water, and allowed myself thirty seconds of smug satisfaction. The canal was calm, a heron stood motionless on the far bank like a pensioner waiting for a bus, and somewhere a radio played German pop from a passing boat. It was all deeply, satisfyingly ordinary in the best possible way.

Of course, the smugness was premature. Within an hour we had established that the youngest had packed fourteen stuffed animals but no trousers, that the middle one had already scraped her knee on the gravel, and that I had forgotten the coffee I actually liked and would be drinking whatever the local shop provided for the foreseeable future. This is the truth of cottage holidays. They are not escapes from family life so much as family life relocated, with added scenic water features.

Yet sitting there that first evening, watching the boats navigate the lock just along from our cottage, something settled. The children were actually playing together without electronic intervention. My husband was attempting to light the barbecue with the confidence of a man who has watched one YouTube video. I had a drink in hand and nowhere particular to be. The mishaps of arrival, the wrong turn, the forgotten trousers, the dubious coffee, all of it faded into the particular pleasure of being somewhere simple together.

We would explore properly in the days to come, perhaps cycle the flat paths along the canal, paddle in the nearby lake, visit the local village for bread and embarrassment at my phrasebook German. But that first evening, still slightly frazzled, still finding our feet, there was something perfect in the not-doing. The light faded slowly, Brandenburg style, stretching the dusk until it felt almost extravagant. A family of ducks paraded past our terrace as if inspecting the new arrivals. We passed.

I have come to believe that the best holidays are not defined by what you do but by what you stop needing to do. No schedules, no expectations, no performance. Just the four of us in a wooden cottage by a canal, slightly chaotic, thoroughly ordinary, and completely content. The angry goose of Wandlitz felt very far away indeed.