I have never been particularly good at reading maps, which is how I found myself sat in a layby somewhere near Quedlinburg, convinced I was five minutes from our cottage when in fact I was forty-five minutes in entirely the wrong direction. My partner, who had entrusted me with navigation duties after I insisted I had "a good feeling about this route," sat in stony silence while I performed an elaborate three-point turn in front of a very judgmental-looking herd of cows. We had set off from the ferry at Rotterdam full of optimism, stopping only for a questionable service station sandwich near Hannover. By the time we actually reached Thale, that optimism had worn rather thin.

The cottage sat at the edge of a quiet lane, half-hidden behind a tangle of elderflower and hazel. I had chosen it partly for the garden, which the listing described as "mature," a word I now understand to mean "delightfully overgrown and absolutely perfect for doing nothing whatsoever." My first impression, once I had stopped apologising for my navigational incompetence, was of stillness. Proper stillness. The sort that makes you aware of how much noise you normally carry around in your own head.

We dumped our bags with the enthusiasm of people who had been in a car for eight hours and immediately headed for the terrace. The garden sloped gently away from the house, given over to rough grass, a few fruit trees, and what I suspected was a former vegetable patch now colonised by wildflowers. A wooden bench faced south-west, positioned for evening light. I sat down with every intention of unpacking later, possibly much later, possibly never.

The cottage itself was unpretentious in the best possible way. Exposed beams, slightly uneven floors, windows that opened outward with satisfying heaviness. The kitchen had a proper table, the sort that encourages long breakfasts rather than quick departures. I ran my hand along the windowsill and found it warm from the afternoon sun. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell marked the hour. I had no idea what hour it was and found, to my surprise, that I did not much care.

That first evening, we did almost nothing. We opened wine we had bought at a supermarket in Braunschweig, sat on that bench, and watched the light change across the garden. The elderflower threw long shadows. A blackbird sang with the exhausting enthusiasm of someone who had never heard of performance anxiety. I had brought three books, ambitious choices, and found myself instead staring at a patch of moss on the stone wall, noticing how it held the last of the sunlight. My partner fell asleep in the chair, mouth slightly open, looking utterly ridiculous and utterly content.

I had arrived with a mental list. Walks to the Bodetal gorge, perhaps a trip to the chairlift, definitely the Hexentanzplatz. All sensible Harz activities, all within easy reach. Yet sitting there, with my feet up and my phone deliberately left inside, I felt the peculiar pleasure of letting those plans dissolve. The gorge would still exist tomorrow. The chairlift had operated for decades without my patronage. What I wanted, with an intensity that surprised me, was to continue doing precisely this.

The mishap of getting lost now seemed almost like necessary preparation. If I had arrived efficiently, on schedule, I might have maintained my usual momentum. Instead, the frustration of those wrong turns had somehow burned off my restlessness, leaving only a willingness to be where I was. I thought about this as the first stars appeared, not quite believing I was having such a thought and deciding not to examine it too closely.

We moved inside when the midges appeared, carrying our glasses, leaving the doors open to the cooling air. I found my book eventually, read three pages, put it down. The garden had become a dark shape against a darker sky. Somewhere, an owl. I went to bed early, slept heavily, woke to birdsong and the particular grey-green light of a Harz morning filtering through half-closed curtains.

I lay there for some time, listening to my partner breathing, making no plans whatsoever.