I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through what looked like someone's back garden. There I was, trundling through Groningen province in late October, convinced I was about to become a local legend for all the wrong reasons. The drizzle had been constant since Zwolle, and my windscreen wipers were making that awful squeak that means you really should have replaced them in August.

The mishap came just outside Vlagtwedde itself. I spotted what I thought was the turning, executed a confident swing into a farm track, and immediately sank two wheels into mud that had the consistency and colour of poorly made hot chocolate. Three locals appeared from nowhere, because that is what locals do in these situations. They did not laugh outright, which I appreciated. They merely looked at my rental car with the patient expression of people who have seen this many times before. A tractor materialised, because of course one did, and ten minutes later I was back on tarmac with my dignity in approximately the same condition as my tyres.

The holiday home revealed itself down a proper lane, nestled among trees that had turned the particular shade of burnt copper that only happens when autumn has been properly wet. The thatched roof was dark with rain, and smoke curled from a chimney that I had not expected to feel so immediately grateful for. I stood in the drizzle for a moment, just looking, and something in my shoulders dropped. The frantic energy of the motorway, the sat nav panic, the mud incident, all of it seemed to get absorbed by the damp stillness.

Inside, the place smelled of wood smoke and something faintly herbal, perhaps from dried bundles hanging in the kitchen. The owners had left the heating on low, knowing what October afternoons do to travellers. I made the classic mistake of the overeager holidaymaker and immediately tried to light the wood burner myself, producing a lot of theatrical coughing and no actual flame. It took three attempts and some undignified kneeling before I achieved what my father would have called a proper draw. The reward was immediate: that particular orange glow that makes a room feel held.

The windows were streaming with condensation, blurring the garden into watercolour. I did not draw the curtains. Instead I sat with a cup of tea that scalded my tongue, watching darkness arrive early as it does at that time of year, bringing with it a particular kind of quiet that feels earned rather than empty. The rain intensified, drumming on the thatch with a sound quite different from modern roofing, softer and somehow older.

I had planned to venture out for supplies, perhaps drive to the nearest village for a proper meal. The weather made the decision for me. I found pasta in the cupboard, made something approximate with tinned tomatoes, and ate it at the kitchen table with my wet coat dripping on the radiator behind me. It was not the evening I had imagined. It was better.

That first night, sleep came with the weight that only fresh air and mild exhaustion can provide. I woke to the same grey light, the same steady rain, and felt no urge to rush anywhere. The season had imposed its own rhythm, and I found myself unexpectedly willing to follow it, to move at the speed of someone with nowhere particular to be, which is of course the whole point of leaving home in the first place.