I should have known the Sat Nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me down what looked like a farm track outside Quedlinburg. There I was, convinced I was taking the scenic route to Thale, when my other half piped up from the passenger seat that the "road" had grass growing down the middle. We turned back, laughed it off, and promptly got lost again twenty minutes later. By the time we actually found the holiday home, I had seen more of the Harz's back lanes than I ever intended.

The property itself sits just on the edge of Thale, and I will admit that my first glimpse through the windscreen was not my finest moment. I had built up this image of arriving like some sort of seasoned European traveller, perhaps with a knowing nod and an appreciative whistle. Instead, I tripped over the doorframe trying to unload the cases, swore quietly, and then stood there rubbing my shin while a blackbird watched from the fence with what I can only describe as judgment.

The house has that solid, unhurried feel you find in this part of Germany. Nothing flashy, nothing trying too hard. Wooden beams, decent windows, and a kitchen that actually has sharp knives for once, which I discovered when I nearly took the end off my thumb making a sandwich. We had booked it partly for the location, partly because the photos showed a terrace that looked perfect for evening wine, and partly because my other half had spotted a dishwasher and declared it non-negotiable.

That first afternoon, still slightly giddy from the journey and my various mishaps, we decided to explore on foot rather than risk the car again. Thale itself is small enough to wander without much purpose, which suits me perfectly. We found ourselves down by the Bode river, following a path that seemed to lead nowhere in particular. The water moves fast there, brown and urgent from the hills, and I stood on a bridge watching it for longer than I care to admit, thinking about nothing much at all.

It was getting lost properly that saved the whole first day. We took a turning that looked promising, found it petered out into a gravel track between gardens, and ended up in someone's driveway being barked at by a dog the size of a small horse. Retracing our steps, we spotted a narrow gap between two houses, barely a path at all, and squeezed through on a whim. It led to a tiny clearing with a bench, completely hidden, overlooking a slice of valley that I suspect does not appear in any guidebook. We sat there sharing a packet of crisps we had bought in a panic from a petrol station, and it felt like the most genuine moment of the entire trip.

I think that is what I am learning, slowly and with considerable resistance, about travelling in middle age. The planned bits are fine, necessary even. But the accidental discoveries, the wrong turns and the dead ends, those are the things that actually stay with you. My younger self would have been furious at getting lost twice in one afternoon. The current version, nursing a bruised shin and a slight wine headache, found something almost comforting in it.

By evening we had found our way back to that terrace, opened a bottle of something local, and watched the light fade behind the Harz hills. The mishaps of the day had already become funny stories rather than frustrations. Somewhere out there was that hidden bench, and a dog that probably still tells its friends about the confused English people who wandered into its territory. I raised my glass to both of them, and to whatever wrong turns tomorrow might bring.