I have never been brilliant at reading instructions, which is how I ended up driving our hired VW Golf up what I am fairly certain was a footpath on the edge of Thale. My partner, Sarah, was gripping the door handle and making that particular humming noise she does when she is choosing not to say something that might end the holiday before it begins. The sat nav had given up on us somewhere near Quedlinburg, and I had decided, with the confidence of a man who does not speak German beyond "zwei Bier, bitte," that I could navigate by intuition alone.

The property, when we finally found it, sat tucked among trees with a view down toward the Bode valley that made my little detour almost worth the terror. Almost. We had booked a traditional Harz half-timbered place through Novasol, all dark beams and steep roofs, the sort of cottage that looks like it should have a witch leaning out of it saying something ominous about gingerbread. The reality, as I discovered while attempting to reverse into the parking space, was slightly less picturesque and significantly more involving of a low stone wall that I may or may not have scraped along the passenger side.

Sarah got out without a word and went to find the key safe. I sat in the driver's seat, contemplating whether I could buff out the damage with a bit of spit and optimism, and also whether this was the moment in our relationship where she finally realised she could do better.

The key safe, naturally, was not where the instructions said. Sarah had read the instructions. She had read them twice, emailed them to herself, and screenshotted them. I had glanced at them in the airport Wetherspoons while eating a breakfast bap and thinking mostly about whether I wanted brown sauce. This disparity in our preparation levels was becoming a theme.

We found the safe eventually, hidden behind a drainpipe that seemed almost aggressively camouflaged, and the key turned in the lock with that satisfying clunk you only get from old doors that have seen several centuries of Harz winters. The interior smelled of wood polish and something faintly medicinal, like the inside of a well-kept church. The beams were genuinely massive, dark and knobbly, running across ceilings that sloped at angles that would punish anyone over six foot. I am five foot ten and still managed to crack my head within four minutes of arrival.

Sarah laughed. It was not a kind laugh, but it was genuine, and I will take what I can get.

The kitchen was compact in that way that makes you realise how many gadgets you own that you never use. We had brought a Nespresso machine from home because Sarah cannot function without proper coffee, and I spent ten minutes trying to find a socket that did not already have something crucial plugged into it. The kettle. The fridge. Some kind of heating system with a dial that appeared to go from "barely tepid" to "surface of the sun." I turned it to what I thought was a sensible middle setting and immediately heard a clanking from somewhere in the walls that suggested I had awakened something mechanical and angry.

We unpacked with the chaotic energy of people who have been travelling since five in the morning. I put the tea bags in the wrong cupboard. Sarah reorganised them while making a noise that was not quite a sigh but carried the same emotional weight. The bathroom, when I found it, had a shower with approximately twelve settings, all of which I tested while fully clothed and standing outside the cubicle, getting progressively more damp from the spray that escaped around the ill-fitting door.

By late afternoon, we stood on the small terrace with mugs of tea, watching the light change over the hills. The Bode gorge was visible in the distance, a dark slash through the green. A raven or possibly a very large crow sat on the fence and watched us with what I can only describe as judgement. I had scraped a car, misread instructions, flooded a bathroom floor, and possibly broken a heating system. Sarah was leaning against me, warm through her jumper, pointing out where she thought the Hexentanzplatz must be.

"Tomorrow," she said, "I navigate."

I did not argue. Some victories come from knowing exactly when to surrender.