I had been looking forward to our walking holiday in Friesland for weeks, so naturally I spent the first half an hour of the journey convinced we were heading to Luxembourg. My partner, who had actually read the booking confirmation, eventually prised my phone away and showed me that Tzummarum was very much in the Netherlands, about as far from Luxembourg as one could get without falling into the Wadden Sea. I laughed it off, though I did notice she double-checked the sat nav after that.

The drive up through the Dutch countryside was pleasant enough, flat fields giving way to flatter fields, the occasional cow looking thoroughly unimpressed by our little hatchback. We arrived at the property in the late afternoon, and I will admit my first thought was that I had somehow booked a barn conversion by mistake. The traditional Frisian architecture is rather striking if you are not expecting it, all sturdy brick and steep gables, and I stood in the driveway for a good minute wondering where the rest of the farmhouse had got to. My partner, already unloading the boot, reminded me that this was precisely the authentic experience we had wanted. I decided to agree with her.

The interior was far more welcoming than my initial barn-related panic suggested. Exposed wooden beams, a proper fireplace, and windows that seemed designed to frame the surrounding meadows like paintings. I immediately began planning our coastal walks, poring over a map I had downloaded with the enthusiasm of someone who had never actually walked more than five miles in one go. The Wadden coast was barely three miles north, and I had visions of striding along the dykes at sunset, perhaps spotting seals, definitely looking windswept and interesting for photographs.

The weather, however, had other plans. We woke the next morning to what I can only describe as the meteorological equivalent of a lukewarm bath. Not raining, exactly, but threatening to, with a humidity that made my hair do things I did not think possible. Still, I was determined. We set off for the coast with waterproofs, packed lunches, and my stubborn refusal to admit that perhaps a rest day might have been sensible.

The walk to the Wadden Sea was beautiful in a muted, Dutch sort of way. The path took us through tiny villages with impossibly neat gardens, past canals where herons stood motionless like feathered statues. The dyke itself was impressive, a grassy rampart holding back the sea, and for about twenty minutes I felt properly adventurous. Then the drizzle started, that particular North Sea variety that seems to come from all directions simultaneously. My waterproof, I discovered, was water-resistant in much the same way that a sieve is soup-resistant.

We pressed on for another mile, me growing increasingly damp and increasingly aware that my walking boots, so carefully broken in, had developed a squeak. My partner, who had sensibly worn proper sailing gear, maintained a diplomatic silence about my condition. When the sky finally opened in earnest, we took shelter in a tiny cafe in Paesens-Moddergat, a village that seemed to consist mainly of this one establishment and a profound sense of maritime history. I stood dripping on their floorboards and ordered two coffees with what dignity I could muster.

Sitting there, watching the rain run down the windows, I had one of those small moments of clarity that holidays sometimes provide. I had planned this trip around an idea of myself, the capable coastal walker, the person who strides through weather without complaint. The reality was rather more soggy and rather more human. My partner handed me a biscuit and pointed out that the cafe owner had left a stack of local walking leaflets by the door, routes specifically designed for days exactly like this, shorter loops through sheltered woodland and village paths rather than exposed coastline.

We spent the rest of the week adapting, taking morning walks when the forecast looked promising, retreating to the cottage when it did not. On the one genuinely warm afternoon, we did make it back to the coast proper, walking the dyke in actual sunshine, watching the tide retreat across the mudflats with that extraordinary speed the Wadden Sea is famous for. It was worth the wait, though I suspect I appreciated it more for having earned it through prior discomfort.

Back at the property each evening, we would dry our boots by the fireplace, review the day's modest adventures, and plan tomorrow's with slightly more humility. I never did master the windswept look, but I did learn to check the weather forecast with genuine attention rather than optimistic glances. Some holidays teach you about a place; this one taught me rather more about myself, mostly that I am significantly less waterproof than I had assumed.