I have never been so grateful to see a cow as I was when we finally spotted one near Cappel Neufeld. After three hours of driving from the ferry at Hook of Holland, my partner had declared with absolute confidence that he "knew a shortcut" through Lower Saxony. Reader, he did not know a shortcut. We spent forty-five minutes circling what I am fairly certain was the same beet field three times, while our children in the back seat engaged in a spirited debate about who had the worst case of travel sickness. Spoiler: it was me.

The satnav finally surrendered and directed us to a narrow lane near the village of Cappel, where our holiday cottage sat tucked between farmland and the flat, green expanse typical of this corner of Germany. I had booked what the website called a "comfortable family home" with a garden, and as we crunched up the gravel drive, I will admit my first thought was whether I had accidentally reserved a garden shed. The place looked compact. Very compact. Our estate car appeared to be roughly the same size as the cottage itself.

My partner, ever the optimist, began unloading cases with the frantic energy of someone trying to prove a point. I stood in the garden, which was actually rather lovely - a proper little lawn with a wooden table and chairs, hedges on three sides, and that particular quiet you only get when you are surrounded by fields and have absolutely no idea where the nearest supermarket might be. A blackbird was making an absolute racket in a nearby bush. I decided this was charming rather than ominous.

The mishap, when it came, was entirely my fault. In my eagerness to investigate the promised "well-equipped kitchen," I managed to walk straight into the low beam separating the living area from the kitchenette. I saw actual stars. My partner found this hilarious until he did precisely the same thing ten minutes later, at which point it became a bonding experience. We now refer to it as "the beam of humility." It is surprisingly low. I suspect Germans are generally shorter than us, or simply more aware of their surroundings.

The children had already colonised the upstairs bedrooms, which were tucked into the eaves with sloping ceilings that made me feel like a giant in a doll's house. Our youngest announced that she would be sleeping in the wardrobe, which was not a wardrobe at all but a charming little nook with a window. I did not argue. On holiday, you choose your battles.

By late afternoon, the chaos of arrival had settled into something approaching contentment. My partner had managed to work out the coffee machine, which involved a set of instructions in German that he pretended to understand. The resulting coffee was approximately three times stronger than necessary. We drank it anyway, standing in that small garden as the light turned golden across the fields. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor rumbled along a lane. The blackbird had found a friend and was now conducting what sounded like a very loud duet.

I found myself thinking that this was exactly what we had needed. Not grandeur, not perfection, but a small space in a quiet place where the biggest challenge was remembering to duck. The cottage smelled faintly of wood polish and the previous family's cooking, which I decided was cabbage-based and comforting. There was a small television we would probably never switch on. Board games in a cupboard with instructions in multiple languages. A washing machine that would definitely see action after our youngest discovered the muddy patch near the hedge.

That first evening, we walked to the edge of the village, past neat houses with immaculate gardens, past a farm where a dog barked half-heartedly at us before losing interest. The flat landscape of Lower Saxony stretched in every direction, green and ordered and strangely peaceful. We did not talk much. The children held hands without being asked, still dazed from travel and the novelty of somewhere new.

Back at the cottage, we made a simple supper from supplies we had brought, supplemented by bread from a bakery my partner had spotted during his earlier unintentional tour of the area. It was excellent bread. German bread always is. We ate at the wooden table in the garden as the light faded, and I felt something in my shoulders relax that I had not realised was tense.

The beam of humility caught me one more time that evening, heading to make tea. I am learning. Slowly.