I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when our sat-nav decided that "Grossbreitenbach Friedersdorf" sounded far too German and promptly renamed it "Gross Britain Bach" before sending us down what I can only describe as a glorified tractor path. There we were, three hours from Calais, two children questioning my life choices, and me insisting to my wife that this was definitely a shortcut. It was not a shortcut. It was someone's driveway. A very patient someone, mind you, who simply pointed back toward the road with the resigned expression of a person who had clearly redirected many lost Brits in their time.

The actual arrival, when it finally happened, felt like stumbling into one of those brochures you never quite believe are real. The cottage sat among proper Thuringian woodland, all dark pines and that particular hush you only get when you're properly away from everything. My wife, who had been maintaining a dignified silence since the tractor path incident, actually said "oh" in a tone I recognised from our honeymoon. The children, meanwhile, had already spotted the garden and were conducting what appeared to be a military assessment of the climbing frame.

The key was in one of those little lockboxes that always make me feel like I'm cracking a safe, and I fumbled it for a good five minutes while a neighbour watched from their window with what I choose to believe was sympathy rather than entertainment. Inside, the place had that particular smell of wooden beams and someone's careful attention - not fancy, but genuinely comfortable in the way that matters when you've got muddy boots and tired children. The kitchen was immediately commandeered for snack distribution, because apparently the three packets of crisps in the car had constituted starvation.

I made the mistake of claiming the bedroom with the en-suite, only to discover that "en-suite" in a converted Thuringian property means "bathroom added with enthusiasm if not complete architectural confidence." The shower had personality. By which I mean it alternated between Arctic and tropical with no warning, and I emerged from my first attempt looking like I'd been in a minor weather event. The children found this hilarious. My wife found it predictable.

What struck me most that first evening, once we'd established that the local supermarket closed at six and our ambitious cooking plans would need revision, was how quickly the chaos of arrival settled into something else. We ate bread and cheese on the terrace, watched the light go properly dark in a way it never does at home, and listened to what I initially thought was a faulty pipe but turned out to be an actual owl. An owl! My son announced he would be staying up all night to make friends with it. He lasted eleven minutes.

There's something about these places, these slightly wonky, carefully maintained cottages in the middle of countryside that doesn't perform for tourists. The Thuringian Forest doesn't care about your Instagram. It just is - wooded and quiet and full of those steep little valleys that make you realise how unfit you've become. We spent that first evening not doing anything in particular, which was rather the point, and I caught myself thinking that perhaps getting lost on a tractor path wasn't the worst beginning after all. Sometimes you need to be slightly humbled by a sat-nav before you can properly settle into doing very little, very happily, in a place that couldn't be further from your ordinary Tuesday.

The owl hooted again. My son stirred in his chair, eyelids drooping. "Tomorrow," he murmured, "I'm definitely staying up." We all knew he wouldn't. That was perfectly fine.