I have never been so relieved to see a gravel driveway in all my life. Three hours on the autobahn, one spectacularly failed attempt at ordering a pretzel in what I thought was passable German, and a sat nav that decided "shortcut" meant "take this man through every cabbage field in Lower Saxony." By the time I spotted the wooden sign for M Kids Edition Marissa, I was ready to kiss the ground. I did not, because there was a suspicious-looking puddle and I have some dignity left. Not much, but some.

The mishap came, as mishaps do, at precisely the worst moment. I had stopped at a petrol station near Celle to buy supplies, feeling rather smug about my haul: local cheese, bread that weighed as much as a small dog, and two bottles of something the shopkeeper assured me was apple juice. It was not apple juice. I discovered this only after taking a celebratory swig in the car park, then spending ten minutes coughing while an elderly gentleman watched me with the kind of patient concern usually reserved for toddlers learning to walk. I drove the remaining twenty minutes very carefully, windows down, convinced every police car in northern Germany could smell my mistake.

The cottage itself appeared through a gap in the hedgerow like something from a storybook I had forgotten reading. White plaster, dark timber framing, a garden that had clearly been loved into submission rather than aggressively manicured. I stood there with my ridiculous shopping bags and my slightly apple-wine-scented breath and felt something shift. The urgency leaked out of me. I cannot explain it better than that.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for longer than I care to admit. Inside, the place smelled of pine and something faintly vanilla, the sort of scent that makes you want to exhale properly for the first time in months. The owners had left a handwritten note on the kitchen table, which I studied with the intensity of an archaeologist deciphering runes. My German extends to approximately twelve words, seven of which are food-related. I believe they wished me a pleasant stay and warned me about the compost bin. Possibly. I nodded at the note as if we had reached an understanding.

I did not explore the village that first evening. I did not make plans. I carried my not-apple-juice to the garden, found a wooden chair that creaked in a reassuring way, and simply sat. The garden was the real discovery. Not grand, not designed for showing off, but arranged with the particular logic of someone who understands that a person might want to read in morning shade, nap in afternoon sun, and eat bread with questionable cheese as the light turns golden. There were raspberry canes along one fence, heavy with fruit that I immediately began eating without washing, because I am apparently a child when left unsupervised in nature.

That first night I slept better than I had in months. The kind of sleep where you wake confused about what day it might be and genuinely do not care. I had brought three books and finished none of them, which felt like the correct approach. Some pages demand to be read slowly, then read again, then abandoned entirely in favour of watching a bumblebee negotiate a flower with more determination than grace.

I came to Lower Saxony with a list, because I always have a list. I left the list in my suitcase by day two. The cabbage fields had been warning enough, really. Some places ask nothing of you but presence, and answering that request feels like enough.