I should have known the Sat Nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send us through what looked like someone's back garden near Quedlinburg. Three hours from Calais, two arguments about whether we'd packed the charging cables, and one deeply questionable service station sausage later, we finally crawled into Thale with the petrol light glaring at me like a disappointed aunt.

The mishap came during the final mile. I'd been smug about remembering the key code, even recited it aloud like a magic spell, only to realise at the property gate that I'd actually memorised my mother-in-law's WiFi password instead. There we sat, blocking a lane barely wide enough for a determined cyclist, while I frantically scrolled through emails and my partner performed the slow head-shake of a man who has seen this exact film before. A local dog walker paused to observe our suffering with the detached sympathy of a veteran. I waved cheerily. She did not wave back.

The cottage itself, when we finally breached its defences, had that particular smell all proper holiday rentals seem to share - something between clean linen, slightly ancient wood, and the ghost of a thousand previous fry-ups. The NOVASOL listing had mentioned "traditional Harz character," which I now understand means low doorframes designed specifically to humble anyone over five foot eight. I cracked my head twice before tea was even brewed. My son found this hilarious. My partner said nothing, but his eyebrows spoke volumes.

The kitchen, though, was immediately promising in that chaotic, everything-slightly-mismatched way that makes you feel you could actually cook here without fear of ruining someone's wedding present crockery. We flung open the windows - proper wooden shutters, the sort that clatter dramatically - and the evening air rolled in smelling of pine and something faintly agricultural. Cows, probably. Or ambition dying.

What struck me most, wandering slightly dazed between the living spaces, was how quickly the cottage demanded we slow down. There was no phone signal to speak of, which my teenager treated as a personal affront against everything decent and good. The television existed but seemed almost apologetic about it, tucked in a corner as if embarrassed. Instead there was a proper dining table that begged for board games, and a garden that sloped just enough to make you slightly cautious with your wine glass.

We ventured out before proper unpacking, because the light was doing that golden thing and Thale was right there. The Bodetal gorge loomed at the edge of things, dramatic and faintly theatrical, but we kept it simple - a wander down to the village edge, a poke around the local shop where I bought bread with more seeds than I've ever seen in one place, and stood feeling smug about our rural idiocy while a tractor rumbled past with what I can only describe as agricultural confidence.

Back at the cottage, my son discovered the garden's resident frog during a failed football kickabout. My partner opened wine with the satisfaction of a man who has survived both my navigation and my memory. I sat on the slightly wonky bench with my seed-heavy bread and watched the light change over the hills, already conscious that tomorrow I'd need to properly tackle the wood-burning stove instructions, already suspecting I'd need rescuing.

The Harz doesn't shout at you. It sort of settles around you like a slightly eccentric relative who means well. First impressions? Bruised head, wrong password, frog in the garden, and absolutely no desire to check my emails. I'll take it.