I should have known the sat-nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through someone's front garden in Apeldoorn. There we were, me and my partner, crawling along in our overloaded Peugeot with the windows down and tempers fraying, convinced we were minutes from our Wenum Wiesel holiday home. The sat-nav cheerfully announced "You have reached your destination" as we stared at a bemused Dutchman watering his hydrangeas. I waved apologetically. He waved back, entirely unbothered. The Dutch, I've learned, have seen worse.

Another twenty minutes of circling the Veluwe's forested lanes followed, my partner navigating by phone while I developed a deep personal grudge against roundabouts. Then suddenly the trees parted, and there it was: our little wooden house in Wenum-Wiesel, looking like something from a children's storybook, all red trim and proper character. I practically fell out of the car with relief, only to discover I'd been sitting on a packet of wine gums that had melted into the upholstery. My favourite trousers now sported a sticky purple patch I would wear with accidental pride for the remainder of the afternoon.

The owner had left the key in the agreed spot, plus a handwritten note wishing us pleasant walking weather. This proved rather optimistic, as we would discover.

We dumped our bags with the chaotic enthusiasm of people who'd been in a car too long, then immediately set out to explore on foot. The plan was simple: gentle warm-weather strolls through the surrounding heathland and forest, maybe a longer hike toward the IJssel valley if we felt ambitious. The Veluwe in late spring, we'd read, offered golden sands and purple heather, deer possibly, definitely tranquility. I had packed accordingly: light trousers, breathable shirts, sun cream, a proper hat. I was prepared. I was organised. I was, in retrospect, a complete fool about Dutch weather.

The first hour was glorious. We found a path threading through mixed woodland behind the village, birch and oak dappling sunlight onto the sandy trail. Wood pigeons clattered about overhead. Somewhere a cuckoo called with the persistent enthusiasm of a bird that has never once considered originality. My partner spotted a roe deer watching us from the bracken, its ears swivelling like satellite dishes. I felt smug about my walking shoes, my sensible preparations, my general outdoorsiness.

Then the weather turned.

Not gradually, not politely, but with the sudden theatricality of someone throwing a bucket of water. The sky, previously a blameless blue, curdled into something grey and purposeful. The temperature dropped ten degrees in what felt like minutes. We were still two miles from the house, on a path we'd been following more by instinct than map, and I was wearing the lightest shirt I owned. The purple wine-gum stain suddenly seemed the least of my aesthetic concerns.

We walked faster. The rain walked faster still. By the time we stumbled back onto the lane near our Wenum Wiesel, we were soaked to varying degrees of absurdity. My partner, who had sensibly worn a thin waterproof, looked merely damp and amused. I looked like a man who had fallen into a canal and been fished out by unenthusiastic rescuers.

The house, when we tumbled back inside, had never seemed more welcoming. We cranked the heating, brewed tea with the urgency of emergency responders, and stood in the kitchen steaming gently like two old kettles. I changed into dry clothes and discovered I'd packed three jumpers for "just in case" despite my confident warm-weather predictions. My partner raised an eyebrow. I said nothing. Some lessons need no commentary.

The rain drummed against the windows all evening, and we cooked simple pasta and opened wine and listened to it, feeling rather pleased with ourselves despite everything. The walking plans for the following days would need adjustment, obviously. Shorter loops, closer to the house, with waterproofs actually packed. Perhaps an exploration of the village itself, or the nearby woods where paths were better marked. The IJssel valley could wait for clearer skies.

That night, warm and dry and slightly wine-happy, I found myself reflecting on the peculiar honesty of walking holidays. You set out with such intentions, such careful planning, and the world simply does what it does. The Dutch weather had humbled me, certainly, but it had also delivered something I hadn't expected: the particular pleasure of retreat, of shelter found, of being forced to slow down and simply be where you were. The Wenum Wiesel felt less like a base for adventures and more like a small wooden sanctuary, which was perhaps the point all along.

The next morning brought mist and tentative sunshine. I stood in the garden with coffee, wearing my sensible jumper, watching a squirrel bury something in the flowerbed with suspicious intensity. My partner emerged, checked the sky, checked my outfit, and smiled. We would walk again today, but differently. More cautiously, more prepared, more willing to turn back. The Veluwe would still be there, patient and indifferent to our plans. And I would be there too, slightly wiser, slightly damper in memory, ready to be surprised again.