I have never been brilliant with directions, which is how I ended up driving our hire car straight into a dead end at Den Oever harbour, convinced I had found our holiday cottage. I had not. A very patient Dutch fisherman watched me execute a twelve-point turn while my partner hid behind a map, and five minutes later we discovered the actual property was two streets back, tucked behind a proper little dyke with a view of the IJsselmeer that almost made the humiliation worthwhile.

The cottage itself was one of those solid, unpretentious Dutch places with whitewashed walls and a roof that looked like it had seen off a century of North Sea winds without once complaining. I fell in love with it immediately, mostly because there was a proper wooden bench outside where you could sit with a cup of tea and pretend you were a local rather than a directionally challenged tourist. The owners had left a note saying the walking trails were "excellent this time of year," which in Northern Holland apparently means "bring a spare pair of socks and low expectations for sunshine."

We had arrived with grand plans for serious coastal hiking. The weather app had promised three days of warmth and golden light, the sort that makes every grass blade look intentional and every sheep photogenic. I had packed accordingly: one pair of decent boots, a sun hat I would never wear, and a optimism that now strikes me as almost medically concerning.

The first morning delivered on the warmth at least. We set off along the dyke path heading west, the IJsselmeer glittering to our left and proper Dutch farmland stretching flat and green to our right. There is something deeply satisfying about walking on top of a dyke. You feel simultaneously ridiculous and important, like a minor character in a historical novel who might be called upon to spot an approaching flood. The path was easy underfoot, well-maintained, passing the occasional bench and information board about local birdlife. I read every single one and retained almost nothing, which is standard for me.

By afternoon the warmth had turned to something approaching actual heat. We stopped at a small harbour cafe for bitterballen and cold lager, sitting outside with our boots off like proper hikers. I remember thinking this was the life, this rhythm of walk and rest and walk again, the light staying high and long in that northern way that disorients you completely about what time dinner should be.

Then the weather turned, as weather does when you have committed to an outdoor holiday and forgotten to pack a proper waterproof. Not dramatically, not all at once, but gradually, the way someone stops replying to your messages. The second morning started grey and ended in persistent drizzle. Our planned long loop south became a shorter wander to the nearest village, where we sheltered in a bakery and ate appeltaart that was easily the best thing I have eaten in my entire life. I am still thinking about that tart. The third day brought proper rain, the sort that comes sideways and makes you question every life choice that led you to this particular dyke at this particular moment.

We adapted, because that is what you do. Shorter walks between showers. More cafe stops. A brilliant afternoon in the local museum in Den Oever learning about the Zuiderzee Works, which is far more interesting than it sounds and gave us somewhere dry to argue about whether we should have booked a city break instead. We did a circular walk around the harbour one evening when the rain paused, the light all silver and strange, and it was probably my favourite moment of the whole trip. The water was mirror-calm and there were grebes diving somewhere out near the boats.

What I realised, somewhere between the appeltaart and the museum, was that I had been treating the weather as an obstacle rather than the main event. Northern Holland does not do reliable sunshine. It does light that shifts and changes and makes the same landscape look completely different from one hour to the next. It does wind that tells you exactly where you are. The warmth when it comes feels earned, not guaranteed, and you notice it properly because of that.

We walked every day regardless, adjusting distance and ambition to what the sky offered. Some days that meant a long stretch of coastal path with the sun actually shining, others it meant a damp hour before retreating for soup. I stopped checking the weather app because it was clearly lying to us both and started just looking out the window instead.

On our final morning the sun returned, briefly, theatrically, as if to remind us what we had been missing. We did one last short walk along the dyke, boots still slightly damp from the day before, and I felt genuinely sad to leave. Not because we had done everything we planned, we had not, but because we had done something better. We had let the place dictate the pace, which is not my natural approach to anything.

I still cannot navigate properly, obviously. We got slightly lost driving away from Den Oever and ended up doing another unnecessary loop of the harbour. The same fisherman was there. He waved. I choose to believe it was friendly.