I have never been particularly gifted at reading maps, which is how I ended up driving three times around the same roundabout in Leeuwarden convinced I was making progress. My partner sat beside me, phone in hand, making that face. You know the one. The "I told you to download the route" face. Forty minutes later than planned, we finally spotted the sign for Makkum and I felt that lovely holiday feeling settle in, like taking off a tight pair of shoes.

The property sat tucked behind the main coastal road, a proper old Friesland place with whitewashed walls and a roof that looked like it had seen a few storms and lived to tell the tales. I wrestled our cases from the boot while my other half went to find the key safe, returning with the news that I had apparently booked a week in peak walking season without actually owning decent walking boots. My trainers, faithful companions through many a city break, suddenly looked very urban and very foolish.

We dumped our things and headed straight out, unable to resist the pull of the IJsselmeer coast in late afternoon light. The path from Makkum runs along the top of the sea defence, a raised dyke with grass worn smooth by countless Dutch legs and the occasional determined cyclist who rings their bell with what I can only describe as agricultural aggression. To our left, the water stretched flat and silver-grey, that particular northern sea colour that makes you understand why Dutch painters got so obsessed with skies. To our right, the green fields of Friesland rolled away, dotted with those black and white cows that look almost suspiciously picturesque.

I had planned ambitious hikes for the week. The coastal path west towards Workum, a proper long stretch to build up an appetite for dinner. Maybe the circular route through the polderlands south of the village. I had downloaded an app and everything, which for me represents unprecedented organisational commitment.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

The first morning broke warm and still, that heavy summer heat that sits on your shoulders like a friendly cat. We set off early, walking the dyke path towards the nature reserve at the mouth of the former Zuiderzee. The reeds stood tall and motionless, dragonflies stitching back and forth across our path. I had brought a water bottle and a hat with a flap at the back, the sort of thing I would mock on anyone else but which suddenly seemed essential. We made good progress, stopping to watch a heron standing in the shallows with the patience of someone waiting for a bus that never comes.

By midday the temperature had climbed into territory that felt distinctly un-Dutch. My ambitious plan to push on to Workum evaporated somewhere around the fourth kilometre, when I found myself staring longingly at a farm gate and wondering if the owners would mind two sweaty English people commandeering their shade. We turned back, defeated but cheerful, and spent the afternoon on the small beach near the harbour, watching children build elaborate canal systems in the sand while I paddled in water that was refreshing if you were feeling generous, Baltic if you were being honest.

The heat broke that night with a spectacular thunderstorm that had me standing at the bedroom window like a child, watching lightning fork across the IJsselmeer. The morning brought cooler air and that washed-clean feeling that makes you want to walk forever. We set out again, this time heading east along the coast towards the nature areas near the Afsluitdijk approach, the great dam visible in the distance like a pencil line drawn across the horizon. The path here runs through rougher terrain, salt marsh and scrub where the ground crunches satisfyingly underfoot and the smell of the sea mixes with wild herbs crushed by your passing.

I had learned my lesson about over-ambition. We walked for an hour, found a bench, walked another hour, found a cafe. The rhythm of it suited me better than my original military campaign approach. In a small harbour cafe near Piaam, we ate broodjes and watched a man in waders sorting through his morning catch with the methodical movements of someone who has never once considered downloading a fitness app.

The weather turned again on our fourth day, a proper summer return that sent us seeking the shaded paths inland. Here the walking changes character entirely, following old canal towpaths and tree-lined lanes where the Friesian horses look over hedges with the calm curiosity of creatures who have never experienced an English roundabout. We walked to a nearby village, name now lost to a very good local beer, and sat in a churchyard watching clouds build and dissolve without ever quite managing rain.

I had started the week wanting to conquer distances, tick off routes, achieve something measurable. The heat and my own limitations forced a different pace, one that let me notice the way light falls on water at different hours, the particular sound of Friesland dialect in a village shop, the satisfaction of a cold drink after exactly the right amount of effort. My trainers, thoroughly unsuitable and now slightly misshapen, carried me through it all without complaint.

On our final morning I walked alone along the dyke at dawn, the air cool and the water perfectly still. A grebe surfaced nearby, shook water from its head, and vanished again. I thought about all the walking I had not done, the routes left for another visit, and found I did not mind at all. Some holidays teach you what you need rather than what you planned. I returned to find my partner making coffee, the map spread on the table, my failed roundabout circling now a shared joke rather than a source of tension.

We left Makkum with sand in our shoes, slightly more colour than advisable on English skin, and a list of paths to walk when the weather behaves or when we learn to behave with the weather, whichever comes first.