I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Tzummarum in Friesland proved me gloriously right. We had been driving up from the ferry at Hook of Holland, full of that peculiar British optimism that comes from seeing actual sunshine on a Dutch weather app, when I made the executive decision to follow what I insisted was a shortcut. My partner, who has learned to treat my navigational confidence with the same scepticism usually reserved for politicians promising tax cuts, said nothing. Forty minutes later we were parked beside a canal, surrounded by sheep who looked deeply unimpressed, while I tried to fold an OS map that had somehow become origami.

The property, when we finally found it, sat at the end of a lane so peaceful I could hear my own embarrassment. A traditional Frisian holiday home, all red brick and sensible Dutch proportions, with a garden that seemed to have been arranged by someone who understood the value of doing absolutely nothing in it. I had packed walking boots, breathable layers, and what I considered an appropriately serious attitude towards coastal hiking. The Wadden Sea coast was barely three miles away, and I had plans. Grand, ambitious plans involving salt air and self-discovery and probably a dramatic moment on a dyke where I would realise something profound about my life choices.

We unpacked quickly, threw open the windows to that particular stillness you only find in the northern Netherlands, and set off for our first walk that same afternoon. The path took us through flat farmland, past cows who regarded us with the tolerant patience of creatures who have seen many enthusiastic tourists come and go. Then the coast opened up, and I understood immediately why people fall in love with this landscape. The Wadden mudflats stretched away in patterns of grey and silver, the sky enormous above them, that quality of light that makes everything feel slightly unreal. We walked for two hours, barely speaking, just the crunch of gravel under boots and occasional oystercatchers complaining about our presence.

That evening we sat in the garden with wine and the last warmth of the day, and I announced that tomorrow we would do the full coastal trail to Harlingen. I had read about it online. Twelve miles, give or take. A proper walk.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

I woke to grey skies and a wind that seemed personally offended by my plans. By mid-morning it had started raining with the steady commitment of someone who truly believes in their work. We stood at the kitchen window in our walking gear, watching the garden furniture develop small lakes on its surfaces. My waterproof jacket, which had cost more than I care to admit and which I had been saving for exactly this sort of authentic outdoor experience, suddenly seemed less relevant.

We compromised. A short walk to the village instead, just to stretch our legs, we told ourselves. Tzummarum itself proved worth the damp. A proper working village, not tourist-pretty but honest, with a church whose tower you can see for miles across the flat land. We found a cafe, drank coffee that tasted of consolation, and watched locals come and go with the unhurried rhythm of people who have never once considered hiking twelve miles for entertainment.

The rain stopped by afternoon, and we walked out again toward the coast, though now the paths were slick and the wind had developed a mischievous habit of changing direction precisely when we turned corners. We managed perhaps four miles before retreating, muddy and oddly triumphant, to warm showers and the particular pleasure of holiday cooking in someone else's well-equipped kitchen.

The week continued in this pattern. Mornings of optimistic planning, afternoons of weather-modified reality. We learned to read the sky with the fatalism of North Sea fishermen, setting out when the clouds looked merely threatening rather than actively malicious. We found shorter loops, inland paths through woodland that offered some shelter, routes that connected villages rather than striking out boldly along the exposed coast. On the one genuinely warm day, we walked the full stretch to Franeker and back, covering ground we had failed to reach on three previous attempts, and I felt the absurd satisfaction of someone who has finally used their expensive boots properly.

There was a moment, I remember, on our final evening. The weather had turned mild again, that soft Frisian light returning, and we walked the short path to the coast one last time. The mudflats were golden in the low sun, the sky doing that vast thing it does so well here. I thought about my original ambitions, the dramatic dyke moment, the self-discovery through endurance. Instead I had discovered something quieter: that I am someone who overplans, who packs for the person I imagine being rather than the person who actually enjoys a four-mile walk with a good lunch in the middle. The boots would need cleaning before we left. I had never once regretted bringing them.

We walked back slowly, the village lights coming on across the flat land, and I decided that this was enough. That this was, in its modest way, exactly right.