I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me down what looked like a goat track somewhere near Wernigerode. There I was, convinced I was being clever by avoiding the main roads, and instead I ended up reversing half a mile back up a lane barely wide enough for a bicycle because a very unimpressed local in a VW Passat simply stopped and folded his arms until I retreated. Classic.

The journey from Calais had been long enough already. My partner had insisted we could do it in one go, and I had insisted we stop for a proper lunch, and somehow neither of us had really won. We arrived in Thale grumpy, slightly crumpled, and with a boot full of snacks we had forgotten to eat because we were too busy arguing about whether "just one more service station" counted as a proper break. Spoiler: it does not.

Finding the holiday home itself was actually the easy part, which surprised me given my track record. It sits on the edge of Thale, and the Harz mountains rise up behind it like they are trying to impress you. I will admit, stepping out of the car after that final wrong turn, I did feel a small flutter of something. Relief, probably. But also the quiet. You do not realise how much noise you carry with you until it suddenly stops.

The mishap, though. I promised you a mishap.

I had the key code ready, feeling very modern and efficient. I also had three bags, a coat over one arm, and a determination to open the door in one smooth motion like someone in a property advert. The code worked. The door opened. I stepped inside with my arms full and promptly walked straight into a radiator that some thoughtful architect had positioned exactly at shin height behind the door. I yelped. Something in a bag went crunch. My partner, still fetching the last case from the car, later claimed she heard the noise from the driveway and thought I had seen a ghost. I had not. I had merely reacquainted myself with the existence of radiators.

The first few minutes in any holiday home are always strange, are they not? You are technically on holiday, but you are also performing a sort of inspection. I limped around checking taps and testing the sofa bounce while my partner opened every cupboard with the efficiency of someone who actually knows what she is looking for. The kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, which I noted with the hollow satisfaction of someone who has no intention of cooking anything ambitious. The living area had that particular German holiday rental brightness, all pale wood and sensible curtains, and windows that actually open properly without a fight.

I stood in the garden for a bit once the bags were dumped. The property backs onto woodland, or near enough, and the evening light was doing that thing where everything looks slightly golden and forgiving. I thought about my shins. I thought about the sat nav betrayal. I thought about how I would definitely not mention the radiator to anyone, and how I was already mentally drafting this story for my sister.

Thale itself was just down the road, but we did not venture out that first evening. We had brought emergency pasta, and emergency pasta was consumed on the little terrace with a bottle of something local and white that we had grabbed from a supermarket in some town whose name I have already forgotten. It tasted of victory. Or possibly petrol station forecourt. Hard to say after eight hours of driving.

What struck me, nursing my pasta and my dignity, was how quickly the place began to feel like somewhere we might actually relax into. Not immediately. Holiday homes need earning, I think. You have to unpack badly, misplace your phone charger, and have at least one minor domestic about whose fault the wrong turn was before the walls stop being strange and start being yours for the week.

The Harz was waiting, of course. The Brocken railway, the walking trails, the whole proper German outdoors experience that had drawn us here in the first place. But that first night, we simply sat with our supermarket wine and listened to the quiet, and I privately promised my shins I would be more careful with doors for the remainder of the trip.

I kept that promise for approximately four hours, when I walked into the bathroom door in the dark. But that, as they say, is another story.