I have never been so pleased to see a cow in all my life. There I was, three hours into what should have been a two-hour drive from the Eurotunnel, absolutely convinced I had driven us into Belgium by mistake. My partner sat beside me in stoic silence, clutching the printed directions like a talisman, while I performed an elaborate three-point turn in a farmyard somewhere north of Apeldoorn. The cow watched the whole performance with the weary expression of someone who had seen this exact scene a hundred times before. When we finally spotted the sign for Epe, I may have let out a small cheer that was entirely disproportionate to the moment.

The cottage sat at the end of a narrow lane, half-hidden behind a proper Dutch hedge that looked like it had been trimmed with a spirit level and military precision. I had worried it might feel too pristine, too much like a showroom, but the moment I stepped onto the wooden decking and heard nothing but birdsong and the distant hum of a neighbour's lawnmower, something in my shoulders unclenched. Three months of London tension simply dissolved into the warm September air.

I will be honest: my first impression was mostly about the outdoor furniture. Specifically, the lounger positioned at the perfect angle to catch afternoon sun. I had brought three books, a sketchpad I had no real intention of using, and a pair of walking shoes that would remain largely decorative. Within an hour of arrival, I had tested the lounger extensively and confirmed it was exactly the sort of furniture that encourages professional-level idleness. My partner unpacked the shopping while I made important observations about cloud formations. This is, I told myself, precisely what holidays are for.

The village of Epe revealed itself slowly, which suited us perfectly. A morning stroll to the baker for warm broodjes, the kind of bread that makes you wonder why you ever bother with supermarket sliced. An afternoon potter along the heathland paths that start practically from the cottage door, where the heather was just beginning to turn that extraordinary purple. I am not much of a nature person generally, but there is something quietly theatrical about Dutch landscape when the light hits it right. Low and flat and somehow completely unapologetic about it.

We did venture to the Veluwezoom on our third day, though "venture" is perhaps overstating it. We drove ten minutes, walked for perhaps forty-five at a pace that would embarrass a tortoise, then retreated to a village cafe for appelgebak that was still warm from the oven. The waitress did not rush us. Nobody rushed us. This was perhaps the most foreign thing about the whole experience.

By day five I had established a rigorous routine of doing absolutely nothing. Coffee on the decking. A chapter or two of my novel, repeatedly interrupted by the need to observe a particularly bold sparrow. A slow bicycle ride to the local supermarket for cheese and tomatoes, because apparently I now considered this an outing worth savouring. My partner took to sketching the garden, producing drawings that looked suspiciously like the actual plants, which I found mildly annoying given my own abandoned sketchpad.

I caught myself one afternoon, halfway through my second cup of tea, genuinely contemplating whether I could relocate my entire life to a small Dutch village and become the sort of person who waves at neighbours and discusses composting strategies. The fantasy lasted approximately until I remembered my Dutch extends to "dank u wel" and "biertje, alstublieft." Still, for a week, I inhabited that version of myself. The one who notices light on water, who walks without destination, who reads the same paragraph three times because the first two were perfectly pleasant but not strictly necessary.

The cow, I like to think, would have approved.