I have never been so relieved to see a wheelie bin in my life. There it stood, exactly where the owner's email had promised, with a key safe clipped to the handle like a tiny metal lunchbox. The relief was real because I had just spent twenty minutes trying to open what I now realised was the neighbour's garden shed, tugging at a padlock and muttering apologies to a very judgmental cat who had watched the whole performance from a windowsill. Wrong house. Wrong bin. Wrong everything, basically. Welcome to Putten.

The drive from the ferry had been smooth enough, a straight shot east through flat green country that slowly turned into the heathery, slightly wilder landscape of the Veluwe. My partner had done most of the driving while I navigated, which is to say I occasionally glanced up from my phone to confirm that yes, we were still on a road, and yes, that did look like a cow. By the time we turned into the quiet residential street on the edge of Putten, I was ready to unfold myself from the car like a travel-weary deckchair.

The bungalow itself was one of those low, sensible Dutch houses that looks like it is hugging the ground for warmth. White walls, dark timber trim, a garden that had clearly been loved by someone with patience and a decent lawnmower. I fumbled with the key safe for longer than I care to admit, my brain still operating in holiday mode where basic tasks become mysteriously difficult. The door clicked open and we stepped into cool tile and the particular silence of a house that has been waiting for you.

The first thing I noticed was the light. It poured through the sliding doors at the back, filling the open-plan living space with a soft, honeyed glow that made everything look slightly more expensive than it probably was. The second thing I noticed was the sofa, which was enormous and positioned with the clear intention that someone would eventually fall asleep on it with a book on their chest. I took this as a personal challenge.

We dumped our bags with the chaotic energy of people who have been in a car too long and immediately opened those sliding doors. The garden unfolded like a small private park, all neat hedges and a patio that caught the afternoon sun perfectly. A barbecue sat in one corner looking optimistic. I could already picture myself standing beside it with a drink, pretending I knew what I was doing.

That first evening, we did almost nothing. This was the point, I reminded myself. We had not come to conquer Gelderland. We had come to let it gently wash over us like a warm bath. We walked to the nearest supermarket, which took perhaps twelve minutes, and bought bread and cheese and tomatoes and a bottle of wine that cost less than a London coffee. Back at the bungalow, we sat on that patio until the light went soft and peachy, talking about nothing much, watching a blackbird argue with something in the hedge.

I felt the particular pleasure of having nowhere to be. No museum queue, no reservation, no sight that must be seen. Just the sun on my arms and the distant sound of someone mowing their lawn, a sound that in that moment felt like music. My phone stayed inside. My ambition stayed inside. I sat there in a cheap camping chair and felt genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy, which is not a feeling I have often enough to recognise immediately.

The neighbour's cat had migrated to our garden wall by dusk, still watching. I raised my glass to it. No hard feelings, I said. We all make mistakes.