I should have known the holiday was going to be characterful when I got my first Dutch lesson from a petrol station attendant somewhere past Zwolle. I'd pulled in to ask directions to Sint Nicolaasga, and after watching me butcher the pronunciation three times, this enormous man in overalls put down his sandwich, took my face in his hands like a kindly uncle, and slowly moved my jaw up and down until I made the proper "ga" sound at the back of my throat. "You English," he said, shaking his head with what I choose to believe was affection, "you speak like you have potatoes in your cheeks." I thanked him, bought a stroopwafel I didn't need, and spent the rest of the drive practising in the rearview mirror like a madman.

The mishap came five minutes from the cottage. I'd been so proud of navigating the Afsluitdijk without incident, so smug about my petrol station triumph, that I completely missed the turn for the village and found myself on a narrow cycle path running alongside a canal. A man on a bicycle the approximate age of my grandfather appeared from nowhere, pedalling towards me with the unstoppable serenity of a man who has seen everything and forgiven most of it. He didn't shout or wave his arms. He simply stopped, rested his elbows on my open window, and asked in perfect English whether I was aware that my car was wider than the path. I admitted this had become apparent. He nodded, told me his name was Sietse, and spent the next ten minutes directing my three-point turn while sharing his life philosophy, which boiled down to: the English always find the water eventually, one way or another.

The cottage itself was one of those traditional Frisian places with a thatched roof that makes you feel like you've wandered into a children's book. I was still flustered from my canal-side humiliation when the key holder arrived, a woman called Jitske who spoke with the rapid certainty of someone who has never once doubted a decision in her life. She took one look at my ruffled appearance, demanded to know what Sietse had said about me, and when I admitted he'd been nothing but helpful, she snorted and said, "That man. He once talked a German tourist into reversing two kilometres because he said the view was better backwards."

Within an hour I found myself at the local supermarket, which is apparently where the real social life of Sint Nicolaasga happens. I was examining a package of what I thought was cheese when a woman named Trien appeared at my elbow and informed me, without preamble, that I was holding horse sausage and would I like to know the proper way to eat it or would I prefer to remain ignorant? I chose knowledge. She chose to accompany me around the entire shop, introducing me to the cashier as "the Englishman who drives on bicycle paths," which suggests news travels faster than I do in these parts.

That evening I sat by the cottage window with a cup of tea and the horse sausage, which Trien had insisted I purchase. Across the little lane, an elderly man was slowly painting his fence in the fading light, stopping every few minutes to consult with a cat that sat on the gatepost like a supervisor. I thought about Sietse and his bicycle, about Jitske's magnificent lack of patience with nonsense, about Trien who had adopted me without invitation. I had come to Friesland for quiet and landscape, for the lakes and the wide skies that everyone mentions. Instead I had found myself collected by strangers, gently mocked, corrected, and claimed. It was not the holiday I had planned. I took another bite of the sausage, which was actually rather good, and decided I didn't mind one bit.