I had convinced myself that driving to Otterlo would be the scenic option, the romantic choice, the proper way to ease into a Dutch holiday. What I had not convinced myself to do was actually read the sat nav instructions properly, which is how I ended up doing three laps of a roundabout somewhere near Arnhem while my other half sat in silence, developing what I can only describe as a very particular facial expression. We eventually found our cottage down a sandy lane fringed with pine trees, me full of false cheer, him full of very justified suspicion about my navigational abilities for the rest of the week.

The cottage itself sat quietly among similar low wooden buildings, all sensible Dutch architecture and enormous windows that seemed designed to invite the outside in. Ours had a small terrace where two weathered chairs faced the garden, already positioned with the confidence of people who knew exactly how the afternoon sun would fall. I loved it instantly. My other half loved that I had finally stopped the car.

We had arrived with grand intentions, of course. The Hoge Veluwe National Park lay practically on the doorstep, and I had printed a list of cycle routes with the earnestness of someone who definitely planned to use them. There were museums nearby, nature reserves, that famous Kroeller-Mueller collection with all the Van Goghs. We would be active. We would be cultural. We would not, I declared while unpacking, spend the entire week horizontal.

Reader, we spent the entire week horizontal.

The weather had other plans for our productivity. Each morning brought that particular quality of Dutch sunshine that feels generous without being demanding, warm enough to draw you outside but never so insistent that you feel guilty for simply sitting in it. I would wake to birdsong from the surrounding woods, make coffee in the compact kitchen with its slightly wonky drawer, and carry my mug to those waiting chairs. By ten o'clock I would be installed with a book, occasionally looking up to watch a squirrel navigate the fence or to follow the progress of a distant cyclist who was actually doing the active holiday I had so confidently planned.

My other half, who had recovered his good humour by day two, developed a routine of his own. He would wander to the village on the pretext of buying bread, returning two hours later with pastries, local cheese, and elaborate reports about which shopkeeper had asked after his morning. Otterlo itself proved perfect for this kind of meandering, just enough going on to make a stroll feel purposeful, small enough that you could not possibly get lost. I know this because I tested it extensively, my earlier navigational shame apparently forgotten.

We did manage one gentle cycle to a nearby heathland, where the landscape opened into that strange purple-brown expanse so particular to this part of Gelderland. I stood there feeling appropriately moved by nature for perhaps ten minutes before suggesting we find somewhere to sit down. There was a bench. It became my favourite bench. We returned to it twice more, always with books, once with a flask of coffee that went cold because we both fell asleep.

I have thought since about why this holiday lodged itself so firmly in my memory. It was not the sights exactly, though the heathland really was beautiful. It was not any single moment of excitement, because excitement was precisely what we were avoiding. It was the permission we gave ourselves to do very little, to let the sunshine dictate the pace, to treat reading as a legitimate outdoor activity and napping as a form of exploration. The cottage with its big windows and its patient chairs had known this all along, of course. It had been waiting for people sensible enough to slow down.

We left eventually, as one must. I drove us home without a single roundabout incident, which I considered genuine personal growth. The printed cycle routes came back untouched, and I felt not a flicker of regret. Some holidays are for collecting experiences. This one was for letting them drift past while you sat very still in excellent light, and I cannot recommend it highly enough.