I had convinced myself that driving to Vlagtwedde would be the relaxing start to my Dutch getaway. Three hours from the ferry, cruising through Groningen's flat green landscape, windows down, podcast on. Perfect, I thought, right up until I followed my satnav down what I can only describe as a farm track disguised as a road and found myself face-to-face with a very unimpressed sheep. It stared at me. I stared back. Neither of us moved for what felt like an embarrassingly long time. I had to reverse nearly half a mile to find somewhere to turn around, by which point my relaxing arrival had become a sweaty, sheep-related ordeal.

When I finally pulled up to the holiday home, I was already half an hour late and sporting what I can only describe as farm-track hair. But stepping out of the car, something shifted. The place was tucked into the edge of Westerwolde, that quiet corner of southeast Groningen where the Netherlands seems to forget it's meant to be crowded. My little cottage sat among trees with a garden that practically begged for bare feet and a cold drink. I dumped my bags, still slightly flustered from the sheep incident, and decided the only sensible response was a walk.

The weather had other ideas. I'd checked the forecast obsessively before leaving, as any sensible British person does, and it had promised warm sunshine for days. What I got was a sky that couldn't quite commit. Still, I set off toward the Bourtange area, figuring a coastal-style walk along the marshy edges would clear my head. The locals use that word loosely here, coastal, given we're technically inland, but the wetlands and waterways give you that same expansive feeling, that sense of walking toward a horizon that keeps retreating.

I made it perhaps twenty minutes before the first warm rain arrived. Not dramatic, not stormy, just a soft, persistent dampness that felt almost apologetic. I sheltered under a tree and laughed at myself, standing there in shorts and a t-shirt I'd packed for the heatwave that existed only in my imagination. There is something humbling about weather, I thought, about plans made in optimism and undone by reality. I spent so much time preparing for this trip, mapping walks, imagining golden evenings, and here I was, slightly soggy, slightly ridiculous, already more alive than I'd felt in months.

The rain passed as quickly as it came, and I pressed on toward the Ruiten Aa stream, following paths that wound through meadows where cows regarded me with the same skepticism as the sheep. The ground stayed soft from the shower, and the air afterwards had that particular warmth, heavy and green, that follows summer rain. I walked for hours, my wrong-turn arrival forgotten, letting the path decide my direction.

By evening I found myself near Sellingen, legs pleasantly tired, and treated myself to a simple meal at a local cafe before wandering back as the light softened. The weather had changed my plans repeatedly that day, sending me scurrying for shelter, then releasing me into sudden brightness, then threatening again with distant rumbles that never quite delivered. I stopped fighting it and started adapting, taking the walks that offered themselves rather than the ones I'd scheduled.

Back at the cottage, I sat in the garden with a beer and watched clouds build and dissolve. My phone showed more unsettled weather for the week ahead. I found I didn't mind. There's a particular joy in warm-weather walking when you stop demanding perfection from the sky, when you pack a light rain jacket with your sunscreen and simply go. The sheep, the wrong turn, the unpredictable skies, they had become the point without my noticing.

Tomorrow I planned to explore the paths toward Jipsinghuizen, following another waterway, guessing at the weather. Whatever it brought, I would walk through it, slightly damp, slightly ridiculous, and entirely content.