I have never been particularly gifted with directions, which is why my decision to navigate our family holiday to Loosdrecht using nothing but instinct and a phone with seventeen percent battery was, in hindsight, spectacularly stupid. The sat nav had given up somewhere near Utrecht, probably out of sheer embarrassment, and there I was, squinting at road signs while my wife quietly practiced her deep breathing exercises in the passenger seat and the children engaged in what can only be described as competitive whinging from the back.

The mishap came at a roundabout somewhere north of Hilversum. I took what I believed to be the correct exit, felt a brief and entirely misplaced surge of masculine triumph, then spent the next forty minutes driving through what appeared to be an elaborate network of identical-looking canals and identical-looking cows. At one point I am fairly certain we passed the same field three times. The children began placing bets on whether we would ever see our luggage again. My wife started reading her book with deliberate intensity, a sure sign that she had mentally checked out of the navigation process and was now simply waiting for civilisation to reappear or for me to admit defeat, whichever came first.

Admit defeat I eventually did, pulling into a farm shop that smelled powerfully of cheese and better decisions. The woman behind the counter spoke better English than I do, which was both helpful and faintly shaming, and she set me right with the patient air of someone who has redirected many lost British husbands. Ten minutes later we found ourselves winding down a narrow lane towards the water, and suddenly the whole chaotic journey felt worth it.

The property sat right on the edge of one of those classic Dutch lakes, the kind where the water seems impossibly still and the sky takes up most of the view. My first thought, stepping out of the car with legs that had forgotten how to straighten, was that it looked exactly like the photographs but somehow more solid, more real, more there. The sort of place that makes you want to exhale properly for the first time in months. The children stopped bickering almost immediately, which in itself felt miraculous, and wandered off to investigate a small wooden jetty while my wife and I stood there like two people who had accidentally stumbled into someone else's peaceful life.

Inside, the place had that particular Dutch knack for being both practical and genuinely cosy. No fussy ornaments or uncomfortable furniture arranged for show. Just sturdy wooden tables, proper lamps for reading, and windows positioned precisely where you would want a window to be. I found myself moving from room to room with the slow delight of someone discovering pleasant surprises, which is not how I usually behave on arrival anywhere. Normally I am the person who immediately tests the wifi and complains about the water pressure.

But something about Loosdrecht gets into your bones quickly. Perhaps it is the way the light comes off the water in the afternoon, or how quiet it is without feeling isolated, or simply the relief of finally being still after too many months of not being still enough. I stood in the kitchen making tea with bags we had brought from home, because apparently I cannot function without Yorkshire Tea even in the Netherlands, and watched a small boat putter past with a dog sitting upright in the bow like a furry captain. My wife appeared beside me, still saying nothing, and we just stood there, two tired people drinking tea and watching a dog navigate a lake with more competence than I had shown with a roundabout.

That first evening, we walked slowly along the water's edge as the light faded, the children finding sticks to throw for an imaginary dog and my wife and I holding hands with the easy unconsciousness that comes from shared survival. We did not talk about work, or school, or the various small anxieties that normally colonise our conversations. We talked about whether we might hire a boat tomorrow, and whether Dutch pancakes are genuinely superior to English ones, and whether the older one would actually fall into the lake before the week was out. The prediction was yes, by the way, and it happened on Wednesday with spectacular lack of drama.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that first impressions matter, and Loosdrecht made a rather excellent one despite my best efforts to arrive in chaos. There is something deeply restorative about places that do not try too hard, that simply offer you space and water and light, and trust you to do something worthwhile with them. I am not sure I managed anything particularly worthwhile that first day, beyond not getting us lost again and producing a passable spaghetti bolognese from the local supermarket supplies. But I felt something shift slightly, some small internal tightening loosen, and I recognised it for what it was. The beginning of actually being on holiday, rather than just being somewhere else.