I have never been brilliant with sat navs, and our journey to Chaam in North Brabant proved it in spectacular fashion. Somewhere between Breda and the Belgian border, I managed to interpret "turn left" as "carry straight on into what appears to be a potato field." My wife gave me that look. The children found it hilarious, of course, which made it worse. By the time we reversed back onto proper tarmac, I had already decided this holiday would be navigated by instinct and stubbornness alone. What could possibly go wrong?

We found the place eventually, down a quiet lane where the trees seemed to lean in and have a good look at us. The cottage sat there like something from a storybook, all red brick and white window frames, with a proper garden that had clearly been loved by someone with more patience for pruning than I will ever possess. My first thought was that it looked almost too peaceful, as if it were waiting to see if we were the sort of family who could handle peace. I am not sure we are, if I am honest.

The key was in one of those little lockboxes that always make me feel like I am breaking in rather than checking in. I fumbled with the code, dropped it once, and managed to scrape my knuckle on the wall. My daughter filmed the whole thing on her phone. She says it is for "memories." I suspect it is for group chats. Either way, the door swung open and the smell hit us immediately. Not that artificial holiday-let smell, all chemicals and false promise. This was wood polish, slightly damp stone, and something faintly herby from the garden creeping through an open window. It smelled like someone actually lived here once, which I found oddly comforting.

The living room had beams low enough that I made a mental note to duck, having already cracked my head on a doorframe in a French gite some years ago and never quite lived it down. A wood burner squatted in the corner, looking optimistic about autumn evenings that were still a few weeks off. The children bolted upstairs to claim bedrooms, and I heard the unmistakable thump of someone jumping on a bed. I chose to ignore it. Pick your battles, as my mother used to say.

I wandered into the kitchen, which was properly equipped in that slightly haphazard Dutch way. Everything worked, everything was clean, but nothing quite matched. A kettle from one decade, mugs from another. A proper coffee machine that looked like it required a degree in engineering. I opened the back door and stepped out onto a little patio where someone had left a bench facing the garden. A blackbird was having a go at something in the grass. The afternoon light was doing that golden thing it does in late summer, making everything look a bit softer than reality.

My wife appeared with two cups of tea, because she had already worked out the kettle while I was being philosophical about birds. We sat there in a comfortable silence that only really happens when you have finally stopped moving after a long drive. The children were still thumping about upstairs, but from outside it sounded distant, almost pleasant. I thought about that wrong turn in the potato field. It already felt like it had happened to someone else, some other version of me who thought he knew where he was going.

That is the thing about first impressions, I suppose. You arrive somewhere new carrying all the chaos of the journey, all the small humiliations of getting lost and scraping knuckles and being filmed by your own offspring. Then you sit still for five minutes, drink something hot, and the place starts to work on you without you noticing. Chaam was doing that already. I could feel it. I did not mention this to my wife, obviously. Some things you keep to yourself until you are sure they are true.

The evening stretched out ahead of us, uncomplicated and unplanned. A walk to the village perhaps, or just more sitting. The children would want to explore, to map their temporary territory. I would want to do very little, and probably fail at that too, because holidays with children are never truly still. But for those first few minutes, on that bench, with that tea, I let myself believe that this was exactly where we were meant to end up, wrong turns and all.