I should have known the sat nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through a canal in Tilburg. There we were, three hours into what was meant to be a straightforward drive from the Eurotunnel, and my other half was giving me that look. You know the one. The "you said this would be relaxing" look. We'd already survived a spirited argument at a Belgian service station about whether a croissant counts as lunch, and now the road ahead appeared to be underwater.

Turns out I'd tapped "Loon Op Zand" with the enthusiasm of a man who'd had too much motorway coffee and somehow selected a walking route. We backtracked through Tilburg's outskirts, past endless rows of tidy brick houses and the occasional cyclist who made our little hire car look positively enormous. By the time we finally spotted the sign for the village, I'd developed a twitch every time the sat nav chirped.

The thing about North Brabant is that it sneaks up on you. One minute you're in industrial sprawl, the next you're winding through pine forests that smell properly of holiday. Loon Op Zand itself sits in that sweet spot between the Efteling theme park and proper countryside, though at that particular moment I would have settled for any spot with a functioning toilet and a kettle.

We found the holiday park entrance down a sandy track that made me grateful we hadn't splashed out on anything with low suspension. Little detached bungalows sat among trees, each with its own patch of garden and that particular Dutch talent for looking both modest and incredibly well-organised. Ours was a wooden affair with a veranda that practically begged for a cold beer and some serious doing-nothing.

The mishap, because there always is one, came when I attempted what I believed to be a heroic park on the gravel driveway. Reversed with confidence, misjudged by roughly a metre, and neatly deposited the rear wheel into a flowerbed. Not just any flowerbed, mind. The neighbour's flowerbed. A very Dutch, very orderly flowerbed full of something that looked expensive.

I was still sitting there, engine running, contemplating whether to reverse out and make it worse or simply abandon the car and start a new life under an assumed name, when the neighbour appeared. An older gentleman in immaculate gardening trousers, the sort who probably wakes at six to deadhead his petunias. He looked at the car. He looked at me. He looked at his disturbed soil with the expression of a man who'd just witnessed a minor tragedy.

"First time?" he asked, in English that put my entire education to shame.

I confessed everything. The sat nav, the canal, the croissant argument, the flowerbed. He listened with the patience of someone who has seen many British drivers ruin many gardens. Then he laughed, properly laughed, and waved it off with a gesture so magnanimous I nearly hugged him.

"Welcome to Brabant," he said. "The beer is in the fridge, yes?"

The inside of the bungalow hit that perfect note between spotless and actually comfortable. Wooden beams, a kitchen that looked like someone had recently given it a serious talking-to with a cloth, and sliding doors onto that veranda. I stood there with my bag still on my shoulder, suddenly aware that I'd been clenching everything for approximately four hours. The pine trees moved slightly in the breeze. Somewhere, a bird made a confident noise. My other half found the beer in the fridge, because of course the neighbour was right, and suddenly the sat nav betrayal felt like it had happened to someone else entirely.

We sat on those wooden chairs as the afternoon turned properly golden, watching a squirrel conduct what appeared to be urgent business in the garden. I thought about how I'd arrived frazzled and slightly guilty about horticultural vandalism, and how quickly that had dissolved into something else. The Dutch have a word for it probably. That feeling of everything slowing down just enough to notice it.

The Efteling's fireworks would be audible later, apparently, on evenings when the wind cooperated. We weren't going tonight. Tonight was for sitting still, for letting the drive fade, for acknowledging that sometimes you need to nearly drive into a canal to properly appreciate not being in one.

My other half passed me another beer without the look this time. The neighbour was pottering in his restored flowerbed, occasionally glancing over with what I chose to interpret as friendly solidarity. I raised my can in his direction, feeling slightly ridiculous and entirely content.

Tomorrow we'd explore properly. The heathland trails, maybe a cycle to Kaatsheuvel, definitely more of whatever that neighbour was growing. But right now, in the settling quiet of a Brabant evening, with the smell of pine and the promise of a proper night's sleep, I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be.

Even if I did still need to move the car.