I have never been so grateful for a thermos of tea in my entire life. There we were, barrelling down the A16 towards Dunkirk in mid-January, convinced we had timed our little escape to perfection. "Off-season peace," my partner had called it. "No queues, no crowds, just us and the authentic northern French experience." What we got was horizontal rain and the realisation that I had packed three jumpers but somehow forgotten my coat.

The mishap came just outside Calais. I had insisted on navigating the old-fashioned way, waving my printed directions about like some relic from 2003, and promptly directed us down what I can only describe as a farm track masquerading as a road. The sat nav sat silent and judgmental in the glove box. Twenty minutes of increasingly anxious reversing later, we emerged onto proper tarmac with a Renault full of mud and my dignity in similar condition.

We found the holiday home in the late afternoon gloom, that particular winter half-light that makes everything feel slightly melancholy and romantic all at once. The property sat in a quiet residential corner of Dunkirk, the sort of unassuming street where locals clearly knew which baker opened first and which boulangerie had the proper croissants. Our key safe code worked on the third attempt, my frozen fingers having lost all feeling somewhere around the Cap Blanc-Nez.

Stepping inside was like walking into a warm hug. The heating had clearly been running, and the place smelled of clean linen and something faintly woody. I stood in the hallway dripping onto the tiles while my partner dealt with the bags, too relieved to feel embarrassed about my sodden state. The winter light through the windows was that pale, watery gold you only get in January, casting long shadows across the living room and making everything feel somehow more intimate, more contained.

I had worried the off-season would feel lonely. Instead, it felt like we had stumbled into a secret. The kitchen was properly equipped, not the usual holiday let tat, and I found myself actually wanting to cook rather than dash out. But dash out we did eventually, because the sea was calling and I am nothing if not predictable about these things.

The beach at Malo-les-Bains was perhaps five minutes by car, though we walked it the next morning when the rain finally paused for breath. In summer I imagine it heaving with families and ice cream queues and the particular chaos of August holidays. In January, it was ours entirely. The sand stretched grey and damp, the sea doing that churning, brownish thing the North Sea does when it is feeling dramatic. A few dog walkers nodded as they passed. Someone flew a kite in the distance, mad and wonderful in the biting wind.

Back at the house, the evenings drew in early and completely. By four-thirty the curtains needed closing, the lamps needed lighting, and the whole rhythm of the day shifted inward. We played cards badly, drank wine we had bought from the Carrefour near the port, and listened to the wind doing its absolute best to get through the windows. The house held firm, warm and solid against it.

I think that is what I will remember most. Not the beach, not even the spectacularly ill-advised farm track detour, but the particular quality of January quiet. The way the season forced us to slow down, to be inside things rather than rushing through them. In summer I would have been ticking off sights, making the most of the daylight, treating relaxation like another item on a list. Winter made a virtue of doing very little indeed.

On our final morning, I stood at the kitchen window with my tea and watched a neighbour scrape ice from their windscreen, breath clouding in the cold air. The light was coming up slowly, reluctantly, painting the rooftops in shades of pearl and grey. I felt a strange fondness for this unglamorous, hardworking corner of France, for its refusal to perform for tourists, for the honest pleasure of a warm house when the weather outside has no intention of cooperating.

We left the key in the safe, loaded our muddy Renault, and pointed it towards the ferry. I was still missing a proper coat, still slightly damp in places, and already wondering when we might come back. Perhaps February next time. I hear it is even worse. Cannot wait.