I have never been so relieved to see a kettle in my entire life. After a flight that felt longer than my last relationship, a bus journey involving a man eating an entire roast chicken with his bare hands, and a taxi driver who definitely took the scenic route to bump up the fare, I finally rocked up at the Serock holiday home just outside Warsaw. I was absolutely shattered, slightly delirious, and clutching a carrier bag containing one solitary squashed pierogi that had survived the journey from the airport food court. Not my finest travel moment, I will admit.

The mishap came right at the end, naturally. I had been so smug about remembering the key code, repeating it in my head like some sort of numerology mantra, only to discover I had been confidently punching it into the wrong door entirely. The neighbour's cat gave me a look of such withering judgement that I genuinely considered moving back to London on the spot. Turned out our actual entrance was three metres to the left, hidden behind a rather enthusiastic hydrangea bush. Classic.

But stepping inside changed everything. The place had that wonderful lived-in warmth you cannot fake, all wooden beams and soft lighting that made my tired eyes want to weep with gratitude. Someone, presumably the owners, had left a small plate of homemade cookies on the kitchen counter. I ate two immediately and spent the next ten minutes worrying this made me a terrible person. Then I ate a third and decided self-awareness was overrated.

The living area opened out towards the Narew River, and even in my frazzled state I found myself just standing there, watching the water catch the late afternoon light. I am not normally one for poetic moments about bodies of water, but there is something about arriving somewhere after a genuinely rubbish journey that makes you disproportionately grateful for a nice view. I may have actually said "oh, lovely" out loud to an empty room. My mother would be proud.

The kitchen proper was properly equipped, not one of those holiday rentals where you get a blunt knife and a pan that has seen things. I immediately started planning a trip to the local shops in Serock town, about ten minutes walk away, imagining myself returning with proper Polish provisions like someone from a very low-stakes cooking programme. The bathroom had a shower with actual water pressure, which after some of the places I have stayed felt practically spa-like. I stood under it for far too long, letting the travel grime and mild humiliation of the door code incident wash away.

What struck me most was how quiet it was. Not eerie quiet, but the sort of peaceful hush that makes you realise how much noise you normally live with. No traffic roar, no neighbour's television bleeding through walls, just birds and the occasional distant boat. I made a cup of tea with the aforementioned kettle, sat on the little terrace with my squashed pierogi as a sort of ceremonial offering to the journey, and felt something in my shoulders actually release.

I had arrived convinced this trip was a mistake, that I was too tired to appreciate anything, that the wrong-door debacle was an omen. Instead I found myself already dreading leaving, plotting which bakery I would visit in the morning, wondering if the river was swimmable or if that was a decision best made before coffee. Sometimes the best holidays start with a bit of chaos and a cat judging your life choices.