I finally made it to our little holiday cottage in Norfolk after what felt like the world's most disorganised road trip. Picture this: me, my other half, and our two sprogs crammed into the car with suitcases teetering like a game of Tetris, the sat-nav insisting we take a detour through some godforsaken fen because Google Maps had a sense of humour. By the time we rolled up to the gravel drive of Willow Cottage near Burnham Market, it was gone 6pm, the sun dipping low over the salt marshes, and I was knackered. The place looked like a postcard – thatched roof, roses rambling up the honey-coloured stone walls, and a cheeky "Welcome" wreath on the door that probably meant "Good luck, mates."

First impressions? Chaos from the off. I fumbled the keys – naturally, they'd sent the old-fashioned iron sort that you have to jiggle like you're trying to hotwire a tractor. The door swung open, and wham, a waft of damp woodsmoke and lavender hit me. Inside, it was proper cosy: low-beamed ceilings that had me ducking like a giraffe in a phone box, a Rayburn cooker humming away, and mismatched armchairs begging for a collapse. But oh, the arrival gremlins were out in force. The kids bolted straight for the garden, only to discover the back door was jammed with a year's worth of Norfolk mud. I yanked it open, and out they tumbled into the wild-ish garden, shrieking about "massive worms" in the compost heap. Meanwhile, unpacking turned into a farce – my bag split open on the slate floor, spilling pants and flip-flops everywhere. "Mum's knickers parade!" the little one yelled, and I couldn't help but laugh. Self-reflection moment one: why do I always pack like I'm moving house?

We'd booked this gem through a local letting agency, typical Norfolk setup – self-catering in a converted farm worker's cottage, miles from the tourist traps but close enough to Holkham Beach for a bracing walk. First impressions screamed authenticity: the kitchen was stocked with a welcome pack of fresh eggs from the neighbour's hens, a loaf of tiger bread, and a bottle of Norfolk cider that I eyed greedily. But the mishaps kept coming. I went to flick on the fairy lights over the inglenook fireplace (pure Instagram bait), and nothing. Fuse blown, courtesy of some overenthusiastic previous guests. Cue me swearing under my breath while rooting around in the fuse box with a torch on my phone, feeling like a proper numpty. Hubby, bless him, cracked open that cider and declared it "character-building." The kids, oblivious, were already raiding the board games cupboard, pulling out a battered Cluedo set that looked older than the cottage itself.

As the evening light faded across the reed beds, we finally settled by the fire – once I'd sorted the electrics with a bit of YouTube wizardry. Stepping out onto the patio for a breather, the air crisp with sea salt and woodsmoke from nearby cottages, I had my second gentle epiphany: these little cock-ups are what make the magic. Norfolk doesn't do slick; it does real. The Broads whispering in the distance, seals probably barking off the coast at Blakeney Point – it was all there, waiting beyond the arrival pandemonium. First night in, and already I was plotting tomorrow's crab pots at Wells-next-the-Sea. What a start.