I have never been particularly gifted at reading sat navs, a fact that became embarrassingly clear somewhere between Breda and Dongen when I confidently followed a cheerful Dutch voice down what turned out to be a farm track meant exclusively for tractors. There I was in my hired Fiat, bouncing through October mud, surrounded by flat fields and the unmistakable smell of recently harvested sugar beet, wondering how I had managed to turn a straightforward forty-minute drive into an agricultural expedition. The farmer who eventually appeared at his gate looked less surprised than I might have hoped, suggesting I was not the first holidaymaker to mistake his driveway for a legitimate route. He directed me back toward the proper road with the patient tolerance of a man who has seen many things in his years among the Brabant fields.

By the time I actually reached the holiday home on the edge of Dongen, autumn had fully settled into its afternoon routine. The light was doing that particular Dutch thing, all low and golden and somehow making the ordinary look briefly magical. The house sat among trees that were properly committed to the season, leaves heaped in drifts against the wooden fence, the occasional one still spiralling down as I hauled my cases from the boot. I had packed for October in the Netherlands, which is to say I had packed for the possibility of everything, and my suitcase weighed accordingly.

The key was where the owner had promised, tucked in a small metal box with a combination that took me three attempts because I had written it down in what I can only describe as optimistic handwriting. The door opened onto warmth and the faint scent of wood polish, and I stood there for a moment with my coat still on, letting the contrast with the brisk outside air settle over me. The owners had left the heating on low, knowing the season, and the radiators ticked gently as I moved from room to room, shedding layers.

What struck me immediately was how the house had been arranged around the assumption that guests would want to watch the weather rather than hide from it. The sitting area faced generous windows, and through them the garden showed itself in full autumn undress, the last tomatoes blackening on vines that had not yet been cleared, morning glory still clinging to one wall in defiant purple. I found myself drawn to stand there with my tea, watching a squirrel make its frantic preparations, both of us aware that the comfortable part of the year was ending.

The kitchen told the same seasonal story. A proper coffee machine, yes, but also a substantial kettle and a note suggesting I try the stroopwafels from the bakery in the village centre, where they were apparently making them fresh on Thursday mornings now that the tourist numbers had dropped off. The owner had left a small pumpkin on the counter, not decorative but cooking-sized, and a handwritten suggestion for soup that involved leeks from the garden patch I could see from the window, should I feel inclined to forage before the frost came.

I did feel inclined, as it happened. There is something about arriving at a holiday let in autumn that makes domesticity suddenly appealing, that transforms the prospect of making soup from garden vegetables into a genuine activity rather than a chore. I suspect this is partly the light, which makes everything feel like a painting you have wandered into, and partly the temperature, which encourages staying put and doing things with your hands.

By evening I had established my patterns, moving between the warm kitchen and the sitting area as the sky moved through its rapid Dutch sunset into proper darkness. The trees outside became shapes, then silhouettes, then nothing much at all, and I found myself lighting the candles that had been left on the mantelpiece, understanding exactly why they were there. October in North Brabant is not a month for sitting outside after supper, not anymore, not unless you are more committed to the outdoor life than I have ever managed to be.

I went to bed early, lulled by the particular silence of a house surrounded by fields at the time of year when the birds have mostly gone and the insects have given up. Somewhere in the night I woke to rain against the window, proper autumn rain that would have sent me scrabbling for cover had I been camping, but here simply meant pulling the duvet higher and listening to it pass. In the morning the garden would be different, the leaves heavier, the paths changed, and I would make my discoveries accordingly. That is the particular pleasure of a house in the country at this time of year, I was already learning. The season does the entertaining, and your job is simply to be there, to arrive properly, to pay attention to what the weather brings.