I have never been so pleased to see a bungalow in all my life. Eight hours after leaving Derby, three wrong turns around Amsterdam, and one spectacular argument with a sat nav that insisted Bergen aan Zee was "recalculating" somewhere in the North Sea, we finally crawled up to our little holiday home. The mishap that defined our arrival? I had confidently packed for "Northern Holland" as though this meant Arctic conditions. My other half opened the boot to reveal my sensible collection of thick woollens, waterproof overtrousers, and a hat with ear flaps. It was twenty-two degrees and blazing sunshine. He just looked at me, looked at the cloudless sky, and said nothing. That particular silence spoke volumes.

The journey itself had been typical of our family expeditions. The Eurotunnel was smooth enough, but somewhere past Utrecht we developed what I can only describe as motorway hypnosis. Flat fields, straight roads, more flat fields. The Netherlands does not believe in suspense. You know exactly what is coming next, which is rather comforting in a strange way. We stopped at a service station near Alkmaar where I attempted to order coffee in my best phrasebook Dutch and was met with such polite confusion that the barista simply switched to flawless English and asked if I wanted a "normal size or English large." I went English large, naturally. One needs fuel for further navigational disasters.

Bergen aan Zee itself announced itself quietly. No dramatic cliffs or sweeping promenades here. The village sits tucked between the North Holland dunes, a modest cluster of low buildings and holiday homes that seem to have grown organically from the sandy soil. Our bungalow, part of a small park on the edge of the settlement, appeared through a tunnel of pine trees that smelled improbably of Mediterranean holidays. The sat nav gave one final triumphant beep and fell silent, as if exhausted by its own performance.

First impressions of the property were of space and light. The Dutch understand windows the way the British understand complaining about weather. Enormous panes of glass faced south toward the dunes, and I immediately understood why the interior felt so airy despite the compact footprint. The living area opened directly onto a small terrace where someone, presumably the previous guests, had left a half-finished jigsaw puzzle of windmills under a weighted stone. I found this inexplicably touching. Strangers sharing space, leaving traces. My other half was already investigating the kitchen with the focused attention of a man who has driven too far on too little lunch.

I stepped outside in my completely unnecessary thermal layers and immediately began to overheat. The terrace looked toward a narrow path through the dunes, and beyond that, the faint rumble of the North Sea. Not visible yet, but present, like a guest in the next room. A woman cycled past on an upright Dutch bicycle, basket laden with bread, nodding politely at my ridiculous appearance. I nodded back, pretending this was exactly what I had planned to wear.

The bungalow smelled of pine and something faintly marine, that particular coastal scent of salt and vegetation and damp sand. It was immaculately clean in the way of proper self-catering places, where you can tell someone has actually checked the cutlery drawer rather than simply assumed. I found myself relaxing in increments, shoulder by shoulder, the way you do when a place begins to feel possible rather than merely booked.

My other half emerged with two cups of tea and the observation that I looked like a fisherman lost at a summer fete. I admitted defeat and changed into a t-shirt, leaving my Arctic preparations folded in the suitcase like a reminder of my own ridiculousness. The tea was strong, the terrace warm, and the dunes whispered with wind and hidden birds. We had arrived, finally, in all our imperfect glory, ready to see what this modest strip of Dutch coast might offer two people who had forgotten, temporarily, how to be still.