I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Makkum in Friesland proved me absolutely right. My partner and I had spent the morning driving up from Amsterdam, full of excitement about our waterfront cottage and the coastal walks we had planned. We arrived in the village, found our lovely little property down by the harbour, and I promptly marched us to what I was certain was the front door. It was not. It was the neighbour's shed. The actual entrance was around the corner, and the neighbour, a chap in clogs who was clearly enjoying his morning coffee, watched the entire performance with the kind of polite amusement only the Dutch can manage. I waved, he waved back, and I decided that dignity was overrated anyway.

The cottage itself more than made up for my navigational embarrassment. Proper Friesland charm, it was, with big windows looking out towards the IJsselmeer and that particular stillness you only get in places where water and sky seem to have agreed to share the horizon. We dumped our bags, threw open the doors, and immediately made the sort of ambitious plans that only people who have just arrived on holiday ever make. Tomorrow, we declared, we would walk the entire coastline to Workum. The day after, perhaps a circuit round the Afsluitdijk. We spread maps across the kitchen table like generals planning a campaign, entirely ignoring the fact that we had not checked the weather forecast once.

That evening was glorious, though. Warm golden light, the sort that makes everything look like a postcard, and we strolled along the harbour wall watching the sailing boats come in. Makkum has that working-village feel, not polished for tourists but genuinely lived-in, and I loved it immediately. The beach, just a stone's throw from our door, stretched out invitingly, and I went to sleep dreaming of long sandy hikes and perhaps a swim.

The morning brought grey. Not dramatic grey, not interesting storm grey, but that flat, persistent, thoroughly Dutch grey that settles in for the day like an unwelcome relative. Still warm, mind you, but the kind of warmth that wraps around you with humidity rather than sunshine. We set out anyway, because we were determined, and because I had loudly announced our walking plans the night before and my partner is the sort who holds me to these things.

The coastal path from Makkum towards the south is beautiful even in poor light, I will give it that. Dunes and sea grass and that enormous sky, the water on one side and farmland on the other. But within an hour, the drizzle started, and I learned something important about myself: I am not the stoic walker I imagined. I am, in fact, a fair-weather enthusiast who wilts dramatically at the first drop of rain. My waterproof jacket, purchased with such confidence in a London shop, turned out to be water-resistant in roughly the same way a teabag is. We squelched back to the cottage, me in a mood of theatrical self-pity, my partner trying not to laugh and failing completely.

The afternoon forced a change of pace, and I am genuinely grateful for that. We explored Makkum itself properly, wandering the narrow streets, poking about the pottery workshops the village is known for, and finding a tremendous little cafe where we sat with coffee and apple cake and watched the weather do absolutely nothing interesting. It was, I realised, rather wonderful. The walk had not gone to plan, but the unplanned sitting and watching and chatting felt like the holiday I had not known I needed.

The next morning brought proper warmth back, that clear bright Friesland sunshine that transforms everything. We walked north this time, along the beach towards the nature reserve, and it was magnificent. Sand between our toes, the water glittering, kite surfers making colourful patterns against the blue. I stopped every few minutes to declare how marvellous it all was, as if my partner could not see this for herself, and she tolerated this with the patience of someone who has learned to find it endearing.

That evening, back on the harbour wall with a cold drink, I reflected on my shed-door embarrassment and my rain-soaked defeat. Both had become funny, as these things do. The holiday was not the marching adventure I had planned, but something looser and better, shaped by weather and wrong turns and the particular rhythm of a small Dutch village. I had arrived wanting to conquer the coastline, and instead I had wandered it, sometimes literally in circles, and found that suited me far more.