I have never been particularly gifted at reading satnavs, which is how I found myself reversing down a narrow farm track near Meppen convinced I was about to become a permanent feature of the Drenthe countryside. The sheep looked thoroughly unimpressed. My partner, meanwhile, had that particular expression of someone who has seen this film before and did not enjoy the first screening.

We eventually found the proper lane, and there it was: a proper old farmhouse with that satisfyingly solid Dutch architecture, the kind that makes you feel immediately guilty about your own slightly wonky terraced house back in Leeds. The owner waved us in with the relaxed air of someone who has watched countless Brits arrive flustered and slightly lost. I chose to interpret this as charming rather than embarrassing.

The first thing that struck me was the garden. Not manicured, not trying too hard, just genuinely pleasant. A proper lawn, some mature trees casting dappled shade, and outdoor furniture that looked like it had actually been sat in rather than arranged for a photograph. I plonked myself down immediately, still wearing my driving shoes, and announced that this would be my position for the foreseeable future. My partner went to investigate the interior. I heard appreciative noises, which I took as confirmation that I had chosen our accommodation wisely despite the satnav incident.

The house itself had that wonderful quality of feeling lived-in without being cluttered. Thick walls that kept the heat at bay, wooden floors that creaked in exactly the right places, and windows that framed the surrounding fields like paintings someone had thoughtfully hung for our benefit. I found myself moving slower almost immediately, as if the building itself had suggested I might want to reconsider my usual pace.

We had brought books, thank goodness. I am one of those people who packs six novels for a long weekend with the desperate optimism of someone who believes they will finally become the sort of person who reads six novels in four days. The reality is usually two chapters and a lot of napping, but here, something shifted. The combination of actual quiet, actual sunshine, and actual absence of things I ought to be doing proved irresistible. I read properly, for hours, occasionally looking up to watch a bird I could not identify or simply to appreciate the particular quality of light on the grass.

The village of Meppen itself, when we finally wandered there on the second day, turned out to be precisely the sort of place that rewards gentle exploration. A few shops, a cafe where the coffee was strong and the service unhurried, that particular Dutch talent for making ordinary streets feel pleasantly civilised. We bought bread and cheese for lunch, which we ate back at the house in the garden, and I felt genuinely smug about this simple accomplishment in a way that would have baffled my usual self.

There is something about Drenthe that encourages this slowing down. Perhaps it is the relative flatness that makes cycling feel effortless rather than exercise, or the way the landscape unfolds without dramatic interruption, inviting you to notice small things rather than grand views. We pottered to a nearby lake one afternoon, swam briefly in water that was bracing rather than warm, then retreated to towels and more reading. That was the day. It was perfect.

I had worried, briefly, that I might feel restless, that my usual compulsion to see and do would assert itself. But the farmhouse had worked some gentle magic. I found myself content with small rhythms: morning coffee outside, a slow cycle to somewhere nearby, afternoon reading, evening cooking with local ingredients that tasted better than they had any right to. My partner observed that I had become almost unrecognisably relaxed, then suggested this might be my natural state if I allowed it, which I found both touching and slightly annoying.

On our final morning, I sat in that garden with my third cup of tea and genuinely contemplated whether anyone would notice if I simply refused to leave. The sheep, presumably, would have welcomed my continued presence with the same blank indifference. But the satnav awaited, and reality beyond this little pocket of Drenthe calm. I left reluctantly, slightly more tanned, significantly more rested, and with a newfound appreciation for doing very little in the sunshine, which turns out to be a skill worth cultivating.