I have never been so relieved to see a thatched roof in my life. After three hours of driving from the Eurotunnel, a wrong turn somewhere near Zwolle that had us circling the same roundabout twice, and a spirited debate about whether the satnav was having a laugh or genuinely broken, we finally pulled up to Hoge Hexel. My partner had insisted on navigating the last stretch using a printed map he'd found in the glovebox from a 2014 trip to the Lake District. Different country, different decade, but apparently that was our best shot.

The mishap came seconds after stepping out of the car. I had packed for what I called "classic Dutch summer" - optimistic, slightly naive, entirely based on a weather app I'd checked in Folkestone. So there I was in linen trousers and a thin cotton shirt, ready for coastal breezes and gentle sunshine, when the heavens opened. Not a polite drizzle. Proper stair-rods. I sprinted for the front door, slipped on the wet gravel, and performed what I can only describe as an interpretive dance involving my weekend bag, a potted geranium, and a very patient-looking cat that had been sunning itself on the windowsill. The cat was unimpressed. My dignity was in tatters. My linen trousers looked like I'd swum in them.

But here's the thing about Hoge Hexel. You step inside, shake yourself off like a Labrador, and suddenly none of it matters. The place has that wonderful Dutch country-house feel - beams you could hang a swing from, floors that creak in all the right places, and light pouring through windows that seem designed to frame the garden like paintings. We stood there dripping on the flagstones, laughing like idiots, and I felt that particular holiday shift where the journey falls away and the proper bit begins.

The owners had left a note about local walks, and I studied them with the intensity of someone planning an expedition. The Sallandse Heuvelrug was apparently within reach, and there were paths through the Holterberg forest that promised proper hiking territory. I had visions of striding out in early morning light, returning rosy-cheeked and accomplished, perhaps slightly weather-beaten in a romantic way.

What I had not factored in was the Dutch summer doing what Dutch summers do. The rain stopped. The sun emerged with theatrical timing. By four o'clock it was twenty-six degrees and I was wandering the garden in borrowed shorts, slightly too big, from the property's helpful emergency drawer. We walked to the nearby village that evening instead of tackling anything ambitious, past fields of maize already tall and the kind of tidy farmsteads that make you wonder if the Dutch have a national tidy-up rota.

That first day set the pattern without us realising. Each morning I'd wake with serious walking intentions, study the maps over coffee, pack water and sensible shoes. And each day the weather would make its own decision. A thunderstorm rolled through on our second morning just as we reached the trailhead near Nijverdal, sending us retreating to a cafe where we spent two hours eating apple cake and watching cyclists pass in various states of waterproof preparedness. Another afternoon turned so warm that our planned ten-mile loop became a gentle three-mile stroll followed by an hour lying in grass near the house, identifying cloud shapes like children.

I had wanted to be the sort of person who returns from holiday with calloused feet and stories of endurance. Instead I became someone who knows the location of every decent ice cream shop within cycling distance of Hoge Hexel, who can tell you which forest path has the best dappled shade for midday rests, who understands that the Sallandse Heuvelrug will still be there next time and probably the time after that.

On our final morning, the weather finally settled into something perfect for serious walking. Cool start, clear skies, that golden light you get in late July. We did a proper hike at last, through heathland and pine forest, up to viewpoints where you could see the land folding away in that subtle Dutch way, not dramatic but deeply satisfying. My legs ached in the evening in a way that felt earned rather than excessive. We sat in the garden with wine and watched bats appear, and I thought about how I'd arrived with such rigid ideas about what made a proper holiday, and how a wet pair of linen trousers and an unpredictable sky had gradually loosened them.

The cat appeared on the windowsill again, still unimpressed, still sunning itself in whatever light was available. I raised my glass to it. Some creatures understand timing better than others.