I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through a field of very unimpressed-looking cows. There we were, three hours into our journey to Oud Gastel in North Brabant, the kids in the back asking for the fifteenth time if we were nearly there, and my other half doing that tight-lipped breathing thing that means someone is about to say something they will later regret.

The mishap, when it came, was entirely my fault. In my wisdom, I had decided to take a scenic detour past one of those picturesque Dutch villages you see on postcards. What I had not accounted for was the sheer enthusiasm of North Brabant's canal bridges, one of which I attempted to drive over without realising it was strictly bicycles and grannies with shopping baskets only. The crunch of our front bumper meeting solid stone still haunts me. We reversed off with what dignity we could muster, which is to say none whatsoever, while a man on a bicycle shook his head in that particularly Dutch way that manages to convey both pity and mild amusement.

By the time we actually found the holiday home, I was ready to abandon the car in a ditch and walk the rest of the way. But then we turned down the lane, and there it was: a proper cottage-style place with a garden that looked like someone actually cared about it, not one of those sad patches of gravel you sometimes get. The key was in the lockbox exactly where it should be, which felt like a small miracle given my track record that day.

Stepping inside was like exhaling after holding your breath for hours. The place had that lived-in warmth you cannot fake, all wooden beams and a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee from whoever stayed before. The kids shot upstairs to claim bedrooms before I could remind them about diplomacy and taking turns. My other half opened the back doors and just stood there, looking at the garden, and I knew we had got something right.

I made tea with the funny little hob that took me three attempts to master, and we sat at the kitchen table with biscuits from the stash we had brought, too tired to attempt anything more ambitious. Through the window, I could see proper countryside, not the manicured sort but the real Dutch kind: flat fields, a distant windmill, and that particular quality of light they have here that makes everything look slightly golden even when it is not.

I found myself thinking, as I often do on the first evening of a holiday, about how we chase these moments. The journey had been ridiculous, the bumper was definitely going to need attention, and yet here we were in this quiet corner of North Brabant with nothing urgent to do and nowhere pressing to be. The kids were already plotting tomorrow's exploration of the garden, my other half was reading the welcome folder with actual interest, and I was on my second cup of tea wondering why we do not do this more often.

The answer, of course, is life. Work, school, the endless admin of being a functioning adult. But for this week at least, we had swapped all that for a cottage in Oud Gastel, a slightly damaged car, and the promise of simple days ahead. I would take that trade every time.