I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through what looked like someone's back garden just outside Zwolle. There I was, white-knuckling the steering wheel in our overloaded Ford Focus, convinced I was about to become that bloke on the evening news who got stuck in a Dutch ditch. My wife gave me that look, the one that says "you promised this would be relaxing," while our two kids in the back had already entered that feral stage of a long drive where everything becomes either hilarious or grounds for a full-blown row.

The real comedy came when we finally rolled into Ommen and I confidently turned down what I was certain was the lane to our cottage. It was not. It was, in fact, the driveway of a very patient farmer who was trying to manoeuvre a tractor around my suddenly very small-looking family car. I wound down the window with what I hoped was an apologetic grin and managed to produce something between "holiday home" and "terribly sorry" in my best GCSE Dutch. He just pointed back up the lane, not even breaking stride with his chewing. We reversed in a manner that would have made my driving instructor weep.

The actual property, when we found it, sat tucked among trees with that particular stillness you only get in the Dutch countryside. A proper cottage-style place, not trying too hard, just comfortable and straightforward. The key was in the lockbox as promised, though I spent a good five minutes punching in the code with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb before it finally clicked open. The door swung in and there was that smell, you know the one - somewhere between clean linen and old wood, with perhaps a hint of whatever the previous guests had cooked for their final breakfast.

I stood in the hallway with my ridiculous-sized suitcase and felt something shift. The drive, the farmer, the sat nav's apparent vendetta against me - it all started to feel like the necessary nonsense before the actual holiday could begin. The kids had already bolted past me, squabbling over who got which bedroom, while my wife wandered through to the kitchen and made that little satisfied noise she does when a place meets her standards.

The living room had proper windows looking out towards greenery, none of your postage-stamp modern nonsense. I could see our youngest already pressing their face against the glass, probably looking for wildlife they'd later complain about not seeing. There was a fireplace I immediately imagined us using in the evening, though I knew full well I'd make a hash of lighting it and we'd end up with smoke everywhere and me pretending that was exactly what I intended.

My wife appeared with two mugs of tea she'd found the makings for, and we stood there in our new temporary kitchen with its slightly wonky drawer and its view of a garden that needed nothing from us except our presence. The kids' voices echoed from upstairs, still negotiating territory. I thought about how I'd stressed over the journey, over getting everything right, over being the one who organised this whole thing. And here we were, slightly chaotic, definitely imperfect, already making this place ours through sheer clumsy arrival.

That farmer's driveway, I decided, taking my tea and wandering toward the garden door, would make a decent story by the fire tonight. Assuming I could get the thing lit, of course.