I should have known the Dutch weather would have the last laugh. There I was, smug as you like, having navigated the ferry from Hull to Rotterdam without a single wrong turn, only to discover somewhere near Groningen that my "waterproof" jacket had been lying to me for three years. The heavens opened precisely as I pulled into the gravel drive of our Vlagtwedde cottage, and I spent a good five minutes performing what can only be described as an interpretive dance of panic, trying to unload suitcases while holding a map over my head that was itself dissolving into papier-mache.

October in the north Netherlands, it turns out, does not do things by halves.

The cottage sat at the end of a lane lined with birch trees that had turned the most ridiculous shade of butter yellow, as if trying to apologise for the rain. My partner had already made it to the covered porch and was watching my performance with the patient expression of someone who had suggested packing the proper coat back in Derbyshire. I joined them finally, squelching dramatically, and we stood there in our little puddle of an entranceway, listening to the rain drum against the terracotta roof tiles.

That first evening, the season wrapped itself around the place completely. The heating clicked on with a satisfying rumble, and we discovered the cottage's best feature almost by accident: enormous windows in the living area that framed the darkening garden like a living painting. The trees swayed in wet gusts, and somewhere beyond the hedge we could hear water moving through the ditches that criss-cross this part of Groningen. We had planned to venture out for dinner, perhaps to one of the village pubs nearby, but instead found ourselves in the kitchen making soup from the emergency supplies we'd packed, watching our breath fog the glass slightly whenever we pressed close to see the weather's next move.

Morning brought a transformation that felt almost theatrical. I woke to pale, watery sunshine filtering through curtains that we hadn't bothered to close, too exhausted from the journey and the damp spectacle of arrival. The garden glistened. Every leaf seemed to hold a droplet, and the birch trees now looked positively smug in their golden coats. I made coffee and took it outside in the proper coat I'd eventually found crumpled at the bottom of my bag, feeling the cold bite through my slippers but not quite caring. The air smelled of wet earth and something faintly smoky from a neighbouring chimney.

Walking to the village later, we found the season had stripped the place of any summer pretence. The tourist boats were gone from the nearby waterways, the cycling paths held only locals in sensible jackets, and the little shop in Vlagtwedde village had already stacked its window with Sinterklaas treats that felt impossibly early and yet completely right. We bought bread and cheese and apples with skins that had gone slightly waxy from cold storage, and walked back through lanes where the puddles reflected grey skies broken by sudden, startling blue.

That first full day taught me something about autumn holidays that summer never could. There is a particular pleasure in retreat, in finding your cottage warm against the outside, in planning your walks around the weather's mood rather than assuming constant sunshine. We spent the afternoon in the garden's little sheltered corner, wrapped in blankets from the house, reading and dozing while clouds performed their slow theatre overhead. When rain returned, we simply gathered our things and moved inside, where the afternoon light turned everything amber and temporary.

I thought about this as I watched the evening come down early, as it does in late October, the darkness seeming to rise from the ground rather than descend from the sky. The cottage felt like a small ship in a sea of seasonal change, and we were learning to be good passengers. My useless jacket hung dripping over the radiator, a reminder of my hubris, and I found myself grateful for the mistake that had forced me to slow down, to let the weather dictate the pace, to find my entertainment in the simple fact of being somewhere else while the year turned.

The fire, when we finally worked out the wood burner, crackled with a sound that felt like approval.