I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to get our estate car stuck in a sandy lane not three minutes from the cottage. There we were, four hours after leaving Berlin, windows down, smelling that gorgeous pine-and-sea air of northwest Pomerania, and I decided to "explore" a shortcut. The wheels spun. The kids went suspiciously quiet in the back. My wife gave me that look. You know the one.

A chap walking his terrier took pity on us, directed me to reverse very slowly onto firmer ground, and said something in Polish that sounded either sympathetic or deeply amused. Probably both, to be fair.

The cottage itself sits in Nowe Warpno, a little town tucked between the Szczecin Lagoon and Lake Nowowarpienskie. We'd booked through Novasol, drawn by photos of a proper wooden place with a veranda and enough bedrooms that nobody would have to share with the snorer in the family. That's me, apparently. The drive from the main road winds through pine forest that feels almost Scandinavian, all tall straight trunks and that particular hush you only get with conifers.

First impressions? The key was in the lockbox, which I fumbled with for several minutes while a mosquito made a meal of my ankle. Classic. But then the door swung open and there was that particular smell of a well-kept holiday let: faint wood polish, maybe a touch of lavender from the cupboards, and the promise of someone else's slightly more organised life. The living room had enormous windows facing west, and the late afternoon sun was pouring across a worn but comfortable sofa. The kids bolted upstairs to claim beds, which I took as a positive sign.

I made the immediate mistake of inspecting everything too thoroughly, as I always do. Checking the oven works, counting spoons, peering into the boiler cupboard like I understand what any of it does. My wife simply walked out onto the veranda with her tea and stayed there, already in holiday mode while I performed my pointless ritual. I really must learn to just arrive.

The garden sloped gently down to a hedge, and beyond that you could glimpse the lagoon through gaps in the trees. Not a sweeping view, but better somehow - little teasers of blue between green, making you want to wander down and see properly. A wooden table sat under a canvas canopy, slightly wonky on the paving stones. I pictured breakfasts there, the paper I'd never actually read, coffee going cold while I watched whatever birds happened by.

By evening we'd established our pattern without discussion. Children exploring the bedrooms and their mysterious previous occupants' choices in reading material. Wife unpacking with ruthless efficiency. Me attempting to work out the barbecue, which was one of those kettle types I've never properly mastered. I burned the first batch of sausages spectacularly, black outside, questionable within. We ate them anyway, standing on the veranda as the light faded and the pine trees became silhouettes against a sky that went from apricot to deep blue.

Someone, somewhere nearby, was having a slightly more lively evening than us. Music drifted over, not intrusive, just enough to remind you that other people exist and are also enjoying themselves. A dog barked once, then thought better of it.

I sat there with my slightly warm beer, legs tired from driving, ankle itching from that mosquito, and felt the particular contentment of having arrived somewhere that asks very little of you. No monuments to tick off, no restaurants requiring reservations. Just a wooden cottage, a lagoon to wander to tomorrow, and the simple pleasure of being somewhere else for a while. Even the sandy shortcut debacle felt worthwhile now, something to mention over future breakfasts.

The kids were asleep before nine. We followed not long after. I can't remember the last time I was in bed before ten on a holiday, and I reckon that tells you everything you need to know about Nowe Warpno.