I have never been very good at reading maps, which is a polite way of saying that my sense of direction is roughly on par with a confused pigeon. So when my partner handed me the job of navigating us to our holiday cottage in Warmenhuizen, I should have spotted the impending disaster. We had been driving up from the ferry at IJmuiden, cruising through the flat Dutch countryside with its tidy fields and enormous skies, and I was feeling rather pleased with myself. Too pleased, as it turned out.

"Turn left at the next junction," I announced confidently, pointing at what I was certain was our route. Ten minutes later we found ourselves in a farmyard, surrounded by curious cows and one deeply unimpressed farmer. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says "I love you but I am seriously reconsidering our life choices." After a brief and mostly one-sided conversation in my terrible Dutch, which sounded like I was gargling marbles, the farmer pointed us back toward the village with the patient air of someone who had done this many times before.

Warmenhuizen itself, when we finally arrived, was an absolute tonic after my navigational humiliation. It sits in the north of Holland, up in the region they call West Friesland, and it has that lovely feeling of being properly Dutch without any of the tourist bustle. The village is small and unhurried, with brick houses and little gardens, and everything feels clean and well-ordered in that satisfying way the Dutch seem to manage effortlessly. Our cottage was down a quiet lane, set back from the road with a proper garden and that instantly welcoming look of somewhere that has hosted generations of slightly frazzled families.

The key was in the lockbox, exactly as promised, and I will admit to a small surge of pride when I actually managed to open it on the second attempt. Inside, the cottage smelled of wood polish and something faintly floral, and the first thing that struck me was how light it was. Big windows, pale walls, and wooden floors that creaked in all the right places. My children thundered upstairs to claim bedrooms before I had even set down the bags, and I could hear their delighted shrieks echoing through the house. There was a proper sitting room with squashy sofas and a dining table that looked like it had hosted a thousand cheerful meals, and a kitchen that was reassuringly well-equipped rather than one of those holiday rentals where you get a blunt knife and a single pan and are expected to make do.

I put the kettle on, because that is what you do, isn't it? The first cup of tea in a new place, standing at the window looking out at an unfamiliar garden, watching the children already exploring the little patch of lawn. There was a bird feeder busy with sparrows, and beyond the hedge I could see the flat green fields stretching away, dotted with the occasional farm building. It felt peaceful in a way that made my shoulders drop about three inches. The stress of the journey, the farmyard incident, the general chaos of travelling with children, it all started to dissolve.

My partner appeared at my elbow with a biscuit and a grin. "Nice place," they said, which from them is practically a poem. And it was. It really was. The sort of place that makes you slow down without even trying, where the holiday feels like it might actually happen rather than just being something you endured. I thought about the week ahead, the simple rhythm of village life, the cycle paths and the little shops and the inevitable trip to the beach at Callantsoog or perhaps Schoorl. Nothing ambitious. Nothing that required me to navigate anywhere complicated, ideally.

The kettle boiled. I made the tea, slightly too strong in that proper British way, and we sat at that well-worn table and planned nothing much at all. Outside, a bicycle went past with a cheerful ting of its bell. My children were arguing about who had the bigger bedroom, which I chose to interpret as a sign of contentment. And I sat there, warm mug in hand, already feeling like this unhurried corner of northern Holland might be exactly where we needed to be.