I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Kirchheim in Hesse did not disappoint. We had been driving for what felt like eleven hours but was probably closer to four, my partner navigating with the confidence of someone who had glanced at a map once in 2019. The Autobahn had been thrilling in that slightly terrifying way, and by the time we turned onto the smaller roads winding through the Vogelsberg hills, I was ready for anything. Anything, apparently, except reading a property number correctly.

The sat nav announced we had arrived, and there it was: a charming half-timbered house with a well-tended garden, exactly like the photos. Except it was not our house. I had marched up to the door, suitcase in hand, and was fumbling for the key safe code when a very confused German woman opened the window and explained, in excellent English that made me feel even more foolish, that we were two doors down. I had misread the number. Of course I had. My partner found this hilarious and made no effort to hide it, standing in the lane with his phone torch like some amateur burglar while I performed the walk of shame to the correct property.

Our actual holiday home, when we finally reached it, was worth the humiliation. A traditional Fachwerk cottage with exposed wooden beams that immediately made me worry about hitting my head, which I did within four minutes. The ceiling in the kitchen area slopes dramatically, and I am not a dramatic sloucher. There was a moment of standing in the doorway, rubbing my forehead, while my partner unloaded the car and pretended not to notice. The place smelled of wood polish and something else, something I eventually identified as the neighbour's wood-burning stove drifting through the evening air. It smelled like proper countryside, the kind that makes city people slightly emotional for no good reason.

The kitchen was compact in that efficient German way, everything tucked into its proper place. I opened a cupboard looking for a mug and found instead an impressively organised collection of spices, each labelled with what I can only describe as intimidating precision. My own spice rack at home contains three jars of mixed herbs of questionable vintage. Here, someone had thought about cumin. I felt immediately judged by a stranger's kitchen habits.

We had arrived later than planned, thanks to my navigational enthusiasm and subsequent wrong-door embarrassment, so the light was fading over the garden. I stepped outside with a cup of tea, still slightly dizzy from the beam incident, and properly saw where we were for the first time. The garden backs onto fields that roll away into proper dark, the kind of dark that makes you realise how much light pollution you normally live with. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Otherwise, nothing. I stood there with my too-hot tea, burning my tongue and not caring, feeling that particular relief of having finally stopped moving.

My partner joined me, still smirking about the wrong house. We stood in silence for a moment, which for us is remarkable. Then he pointed out that I had put my slippers on the wrong feet in my post-journey delirium. I had. Of course I had. The left one was definitely the right one, and vice versa, and I had been wandering around like this for twenty minutes wondering why everything felt slightly wrong. We laughed properly then, the tired kind of laughter that comes from knowing you are exactly where you need to be, even if you arrived via the neighbour's front garden and a minor head injury.

Tomorrow we would explore properly, maybe walk to the village for bread, perhaps attempt a local wander without me leading us astray. But for now, the wood polish smell, the dark garden, the wrong-footed slippers and the gentle ache in my forehead felt like the perfect beginning. Some holidays start with champagne and perfection. Ours started with me apologising to a stranger and walking into a beam, and I would not have it any other way.