I should have known the Harz would have the last laugh when I smugly told my partner, "I've got the sat nav sorted, no dramas this time." Famous last words, that. Three hours out of Berlin and we were already bickering about whether I'd actually downloaded the offline maps or just thought about it really hard. Spoiler: I had not.

The mishap came proper when we hit Thale itself. I'd convinced myself our holiday home was up one of those steep, winding lanes that look like they've been designed by someone who really hates caravans. So up we went, clutch smoking, my partner gripping the door handle like we were on a theme park ride. Ten minutes of white-knuckle reversing later, we discovered the actual property was on the flat bit we'd passed twenty minutes ago, the one with the sensible parking space and the helpful sign. I played it off as "getting the lay of the land" but honestly, I think the local sheep were judging me.

The property itself, when we finally arrived at the correct address, was one of those solid, no-nonsense Harz houses that look like they could survive a direct hit from the Brocken witches themselves. Dark timber framing, proper thick walls, the sort of place that smells faintly of pine and decades of sensible German holidays. Our host had left the key in the agreed spot, which was fortunate since my phone had now died and with it, any pretence of organised travel.

Stepping inside was like walking into someone's very tidy grandmother's living room, in the best possible way. Floral upholstery that somehow worked, a wood-burning stove that immediately became my new best friend, and a kitchen that actually had all the utensils still attached to one another on those ring things. My partner went straight for the terrace doors to check the view while I busied myself with the important task of working out which light switch did what. I flicked one that made a strange humming noise from somewhere in the walls. We never did find out what that was. I turned it back off and decided some mysteries are best left unsolved.

The terrace, when I finally joined her, overlooked one of those classic Harz valleys where the hills roll about like they're not quite sure whether to commit to being mountains. It was late afternoon, that golden hour when everything looks slightly more romantic than it actually is, and I could hear what I confidently identified as a cuckoo. My partner reckoned it was a pigeon with aspirations. We opened the wine we'd bought at a service station somewhere near Magdeburg, the classy travellers that we are, and just sat there with our plastic cups watching the light change.

I suppose that's the thing about first impressions of a place like Thale. You arrive in chaos, slightly frayed, convinced you've made terrible life choices. Then the quiet gets you. Not silence exactly - there were birds, distant cow bells, some enthusiastic dog somewhere - but that particular rural quiet that makes your shoulders drop without you noticing. I caught myself actually breathing properly for what felt like the first time in months.

The wood burner took three attempts to get going because I refused to read the instructions, obviously. By the time I'd produced something vaguely flame-shaped, it was properly dark outside and the valley had disappeared into blackness. We could see lights from the odd house further down, and somewhere the glow of what I later learned was the Bodetal-Therme. But mostly it was just dark, proper dark, the kind that makes you realise how much city living has ruined your eyes.

I woke in the night needing the loo and walked straight into a wardrobe that wasn't where my brain insisted it should be. The bruise lasted a week. But even that, stumbling about in unfamiliar darkness, felt somehow right. A small reminder that you're somewhere else, that your usual patterns don't apply, that maybe getting slightly lost is exactly what you needed.