I have never been so grateful to see a set of patio furniture in my entire life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive to Thale had been one of those classic British-in-Germany affairs. My partner had insisted on navigating, which in our relationship means confidently announcing "turn left here" approximately three seconds after we have passed the junction. We had left Calais at dawn, blundered through Belgian roadworks, and by the time we reached the Harz region I was developing a deep philosophical resentment towards the Autobahn. The satnav, which we had named Helga, had taken us down what I can only describe as a farm track masquerading as a road. I was convinced we were being led to a field. My partner was convinced I was overreacting. Helga, characteristically, said nothing.

Then we rounded a corner and there it was. A proper little cottage, tucked among trees with the Harz hills rising behind it like a promise. I will admit I actually said "oh" out loud, which is my highest level of expressed enthusiasm.

The mishap came immediately. I had been so focused on arrival that I had forgotten the fundamental rule of rural German properties: the key is never where you expect. We searched the designated spot. Nothing. We checked every pot, ledge, and ornamental stone within a five-metre radius. My partner began muttering about phoning the agency, which in holiday terms is roughly equivalent to admitting defeat. I, meanwhile, had spotted what I believed to be a cleverly disguised key safe behind a drainpipe. I reached. I pulled. I was immediately holding an entire section of guttering that had been loose since approximately 1987.

The key, naturally, was under the doormat.

We tumbled inside laughing like idiots, me still clutching my trophy of German plumbing. And here is where I need to be honest with you. I had packed this holiday with intentions. Hiking boots. A guidebook. Grand plans for conquering the Hexentanzplatz, for exploring the Bode Gorge, for being the sort of person who returns from Germany with calf muscles and stories of cultural enrichment.

Instead, I spent four days doing almost precisely nothing. And it was magnificent.

The cottage had a garden that seemed to have been designed by someone who understood the profound spiritual importance of a decent lounger. I positioned myself on one each morning with a book I had been meaning to read since 2019, and there I remained. The garden was not manicured in that intimidating English way. It was simply pleasant. A bit of lawn, some established trees, the occasional bird that I could not identify and made no effort to. My partner would emerge periodically with coffee, we would exchange pleasantries about the cloud situation, and they would retreat inside to their own particular version of nothing.

We did wander into Thale itself one afternoon, mostly because we had run out of milk. It is a handsome little town, all timber framing and sensible German practicality. We bought provisions, admired the river, and were back within the hour. That was the sum of our exploration. I feel no guilt about this whatsoever.

There is a peculiar joy in allowing a holiday to collapse into its simplest form. No itineraries. No achievements. Just the rhythm of days measured in cups of tea, chapters read, and the slow movement of sunlight across a garden. I became briefly obsessed with a particular squirrel who visited each morning. I named him Klaus. My partner pointed out that Klaus was almost certainly several different squirrels, but I refused to entertain this cynical theory.

On our final evening, we sat outside with wine that cost embarrassingly little from the local supermarket. The hills were soft in the distance. My guttering trophy had been propped against the shed as a sort of holiday memento. I felt genuinely rested in a way that I rarely achieve, the particular rest that comes from genuine idleness rather than the exhausted collapse that passes for relaxation at home.

We left the key under the doormat for the next arrivals. I hope they find it more quickly than we did. I hope they too discover the profound satisfaction of doing very little, very slowly, in a garden in the Harz.