I should have known the sat-nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through someone's front garden in Appelscha. There I was, humming along to Radio 2 in our hire car, convinced I had this Dutch driving lark sorted after ten years of annual European holidays. The voice calmly announced "turn left" and I found myself face to face with a rather unimpressed woman hanging out her washing. A three-point turn, two sheepish waves, and fifteen minutes of creative language later, we finally spotted the proper turning for Oosterwolde.

The journey from Schiphol had been largely painless until that point, though I will admit to a small mishap at a petrol station involving a sandwich, a rogue gust of wind, and my dignity scattering across the forecourt like confetti. My partner found this hilarious. I found it less so, particularly as I chased my napkin across two parking bays while a lorry driver applauded sarcastically.

But then we arrived, and suddenly the sandwich incident felt like it had happened to someone else entirely.

The property sat among trees with that particular stillness you only find in proper countryside, the kind where you can actually hear yourself think for once. I stood in the driveway with my bag still half-zipped, just breathing it in. The air smelled of pine and something else I couldn't place, something green and growing and entirely foreign to my usual commute past a kebab shop in Croydon.

We'd planned this trip around walking, you see. Proper coastal hikes, the kind where you stride out for hours and return pleasantly exhausted with rosy cheeks and exaggerated stories about the distance covered. The weather forecast had promised sunshine and twenty-two degrees, which in my experience meant t-shirts and perhaps a reckless bit of bare ankle.

The first morning delivered on that promise beautifully. We set off for the coast near Lauwersoog, following paths through grasslands that seemed to stretch forever, dotted with those distinctive Friesian horses looking improbably picturesque against the water. I felt smug, I won't lie. This was exactly the active, wholesome holiday I'd imagined, the antidote to twelve months of desk-bound gloom.

The afternoon, however, had other ideas.

I have never seen weather turn quite so dramatically without actual clouds being visible. One moment we were admiring the Wadden Sea shimmering in proper summer light, the next a wind arrived from absolutely nowhere that felt personally vindictive. My carefully chosen walking hat departed for Germany, I suspect. We sheltered behind a small hillock like a pair of bedraggled explorers, me in my optimistic t-shirt, my partner rather more sensibly prepared with an actual jacket.

This set the pattern for our stay, really. Each morning we'd consult the forecast with the seriousness of generals planning a campaign, set off in high spirits, and somewhere around midday find ourselves improvising shelter behind whatever geography presented itself. We walked the dikes near Moddergat regardless, learned to love the quick-changing skies, and developed an almost competitive relationship with the local weather.

There is something quietly humbling about being outsmarted repeatedly by wind. I came to Friesland imagining I would conquer the landscape through sheer walking enthusiasm. Instead, the landscape taught me to pay attention, to adapt, to find genuine pleasure in the attempt rather than the achievement. We walked less far than planned, certainly, but I remember more of what we actually saw.

On our final evening, we sat outside as the light turned golden and the air finally, mercifully, stilled. My partner poured wine. I rubbed my slightly sunburned nose and my slightly wind-chapped cheeks simultaneously, which takes some doing. We watched a heron work its way along the water's edge with infinite patience, and I thought about how rarely I allow myself this kind of unhurried observation at home.

The sat-nav tried to kill us again on the return journey, obviously. Some things never change.