I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me down what looked like someone's private drive in the middle of the Wielkopolska countryside. There I was, convinced I was being terribly organised, following that robotic voice with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea where he was. The gravel crunched beneath the wheels for about fifty metres before a very large and very unimpressed dog appeared from behind a shed, followed by its owner, who looked equally puzzled to see a dusty Skoda full of suitcases and overexcited children. Turns out "Puszczykowo" is not, in fact, accessible via a farm track near Lubon. Who knew?

We eventually found the proper turnoff, and I will admit to feeling rather smug as the actual holiday home came into view. It sits in a proper little pocket of woodland, the sort of place where you half expect a deer to wander past the kitchen window while you are buttering your morning roll. The house itself has that lovely unpretentious feel, all wooden beams and sensible furniture, the kind of place that does not mind if you traipse mud through the hall after a rainy walk. My youngest was through the door like a shot, claiming the loft bedroom before anyone else had even removed their shoes. Standard family politics.

The first evening was spent in that glorious state of holiday arrival exhaustion, the sort where you cannot be bothered to cook properly but somehow manage to assemble a feast from whatever was left in the car and the basic supplies we had panic-bought at a petrol station. Sliced bread, some questionable cheese, and tomatoes that had seen better days. We ate on the little terrace as the light faded through the trees, and I caught myself actually doing that thing I always mock in films: taking a deep breath and thinking, yes, this is rather nice, is it not? Embarrassing but true.

What struck me most about those first hours was the quiet. Not complete silence, obviously. There were birds making a racket in the canopy, the distant hum of a neighbour's lawnmower, and my own children conducting what sounded like a small-scale war upstairs. But it was the absence of city noise that got me. No buses, no sirens, no neighbour's television bleeding through the walls. Just space and trees and the slightly unnerving realisation that I had forgotten how to be still. I kept reaching for my phone, checking emails that were not urgent, scrolling through nothing in particular. The others had settled into board games by the wood burner, and there I was, thumb hovering over a work message, as if the world might collapse if I did not respond to something about quarterly projections.

I put the phone in a drawer. Not dramatically, not as some grand digital detox statement. Just quietly, while no one was looking. It stayed there until morning. Small victories.

The morning brought proper exploration. The garden stretches back into proper woodland, not manicured parkland but the real, slightly messy Polish forest that this region does so well. We found a rope swing that looked like it had been there since the eighties, and I spent a good ten minutes pretending I was too sensible to try it before absolutely launching myself at it like a man twenty years younger. The landing was undignified. The children were delighted. My back has not forgiven me.

By the second day, we had settled into that lovely cottage rhythm. Slow breakfasts, arguing about who had finished the jam. Walks to the nearby Warta river, which winds through this part of Wielkopolska in lazy curves, perfect for skimming stones and pretending you are skilled at it. The small local shop where I attempted my rusty Polish and was met with such patient goodwill that I immediately wanted to try harder. The evenings with cards and too many biscuits and someone inevitably falling asleep on the sofa before nine.

It is not fancy, this kind of holiday. No Instagram moments of infinity pools or rooftop bars. Just a solid, comfortable house in a pocket of proper Polish woodland, the sort of place that lets you remember what you actually like about the people you came with. I arrived frazzled and slightly lost, in more ways than one. I left, several days later, with a rope swing bruise, a drawer-habit I am trying to maintain, and the definite sense that I should get lost in Wielkopolska more often.