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, behind the wheel of our ancient Volvo, kids in the back bickering over who got the last Haribo, and the satnav deciding halfway through the Fens that it fancied a detour via some nameless B-road lined with endless sugar beet fields. By the time we trundled into that sleepy village near the North Norfolk coast – think Holkham vibes, all flint cottages and marshy horizons – it was gone 6pm, and we were hangry, knackered, and covered in crisp crumbs.

Pulling up to the cottage, I had this rosy vision of a picture-perfect welcome: wood smoke curling from the chimney, maybe a bottle of Norfolk cider chilling on the step. Reality? The gravel drive was a muddy swamp after a sneaky afternoon shower, and my first attempt at parking ended with the wing mirror clipping the low-hanging apple bough from the neighbour's garden. Thwack! Branches everywhere, and the youngest yelling, "Dad's destroyed Christmas already!" I hopped out, grinning sheepishly, only to realise I'd left the keys dangling in the ignition with the engine still rumbling. Classic me – the man who once locked himself out of his own house in his pants.

Fumbling with the estate agent's code on the wonky keypad, we tumbled inside like a pack of overexcited spaniels. First impressions? Chaos central. The sitting room was this cosy nook with a massive inglenook fireplace begging for a log fire, but instead we were greeted by a wonky Welsh dresser piled high with local leaflets – "Spot the seals at Blakeney Point!" – and a faint whiff of damp dog from previous guests. The kids immediately claimed the flagstone floor for an impromptu crisp-flinging war, while I wrestled with the ancient immersion heater that gurgled like it was auditioning for a horror film. Hot water? Eventually, if you chanted "Abracadabra" at the boiler long enough.

But oh, the views! Peeking through the latticed windows, there it was: the Broads stretching out like a watery patchwork quilt, reed beds swaying in the breeze, and in the distance, the dark smudge of the sea. It hit me then, amid the unpacking pandemonium – why do I always rush these moments? Here we were, in this rambling thatched bolthole with its creaky oak beams and mismatched crockery, and I was too busy faffing with the wonky loo flush (it involved a brisk jiggle and a prayer) to just breathe it in. Pausing with a cuppa from the slightly chipped teapot, I watched the sun dip low, painting the salt marshes gold. Pure magic, mishaps and all.

Wandering out to the pocket-handkerchief garden as dusk fell, we spotted a barn owl ghosting over the dyke – Norfolk's wild heart right on our doorstep. The arrival farce faded; this place was already weaving its spell. Sat there on a splintery bench with fish and chips from the village shop steaming in our laps, I reflected: life's too short for perfect arrivals. Sometimes the best holidays start with a splat.