I have never been brilliant with directions, and my first attempt at reaching Niwy Ostroleckie proved this beyond doubt. We had flown into Warsaw Chopin, collected our hire car with what I thought was admirable efficiency, and set off towards Ostroleka with the sat nav chirping confidently. Forty minutes later, my wife was giving me that look as we trundled past the same petrol station for the third time. Turns out I had typed "Ostroleckie" into Google Maps with one too many letters, and we were essentially touring a rather unremarkable stretch of Polish countryside while our cottage sat waiting elsewhere. The children found this hilarious, naturally. I found it less so, but there you go.

When we finally corrected course and pulled up the gravel track to Niwy Ostroleckie, the relief was palpable. The place sits in a proper rural pocket north-east of Warsaw, surrounded by nothing much except fields, woodland, and the occasional distant bark of a dog. It is the sort of location where you immediately lower your shoulders and remember to breathe properly. The cottage itself is a modest wooden affair, painted in that deep forest green that seems to belong exclusively to holiday homes in Eastern Europe. A covered porch ran along the front, and someone had left a small terracotta pot of geraniums by the door, which struck me as a nice touch.

My first impression, stepping inside with our bags, was that it smelled of pine and something else I could not quite place. Cedar, perhaps, or simply years of wood fires. The living area was open-plan with a kitchen tucked into one corner, all very straightforward and unpretentious. Beamed ceiling, wooden floors that creaked in the most satisfying way, and a wood-burning stove that dominated the room like a squat, black sentinel. The children bolted upstairs immediately to claim beds, and I heard my daughter shriek with delight at something, which turned out to be a window seat with cushions where she could read and watch the garden.

I must confess to a small moment of self-reflection as I stood there in my socks, still slightly flustered from the journey. I had spent weeks worrying about whether this cottage would be too basic, whether we would miss the distractions of city life or decent mobile signal. Yet standing in that quiet room, with afternoon light falling through the windows and the sound of my family overhead, I felt something close to contentment. It was not grand or luxurious, but it was honest. There is a particular pleasure in places that do not try too hard, that simply offer you space and stillness and let you do the rest.

The garden proved the immediate winner. It was not manicured in any formal sense, more a generous patch of grass with mature trees, a barbecue area, and a wooden picnic table that looked as though it had hosted decades of summer evenings. My son discovered a rope swing tied to an oak and spent the next hour establishing himself as its undisputed champion. I unpacked slowly, making tea with the kettle and opening the windows to let that pine smell mingle with fresh air.

By evening, we had established our rhythm. A walk to the nearest village shop for provisions, a simple supper cooked with more enthusiasm than skill, and then sitting outside as the light faded and the midges began their predictable assault. I slapped at my arm, swore mildly, and my wife laughed at me. The children were filthy and exhausted. It was, in every respect, exactly the sort of family break I had needed without knowing it.