I'd barely made it past Rotterdam when the sat-nav decided my Dutch was better than it actually is. Instead of the straightforward route to Noordwijk, I found myself navigating a labyrinth of tulip fields, increasingly narrow cycle paths, and one very patient farmer who directed me back to civilisation with nothing but hand gestures and a sympathetic smile. My children found this hilarious, of course. My partner found it less so, particularly after I confidently announced we'd "be there in ten minutes" for the fourth time in an hour.

But here's the thing about Southern Holland: even your wrong turns look like postcards. The flat green landscape stretches out in every direction, dotted with red-roofed farmhouses and the occasional windmill standing sentinel against a vast grey sky. By the time we finally spotted the sea, I'd almost forgotten to be embarrassed about my navigation skills. Almost.

The cottage in Noordwijk announced itself with a proper thatched roof, the kind you half expect to find a stork nesting on. I'd chosen it partly for that reason, I'll admit. There's something wonderfully absurd about holidaying beneath several tonnes of dried reed, particularly when you come from a part of England where a bit of slate counts as characterful. The property sat quietly on a residential lane, just a short stroll from the dunes, with a small garden where my youngest immediately claimed ownership of the climbing frame.

Stepping inside felt like walking into someone's well-loved home rather than a rental. The wooden beams overhead were genuinely old, not the decorative sort bolted on by an enterprising developer. The kitchen had that particular clutter of practical things: proper coffee filters, a tin of stroopwafels left by the owners, a note suggesting the best bakery for morning bread. I appreciated this immediately. There's a particular loneliness to holiday lets that pretend nobody actually lives anywhere, all minimalist furniture and empty cupboards. This place had personality. It had books in multiple languages, slightly mismatched crockery, and a sofa with the comfortable slump of something that's supported many an afternoon nap.

My first act was to put the kettle on, because I am British and this is how we process new environments. My second was to open the back doors and let in the particular smell of the Dutch coast: salt air mixed with pine from the nearby dunes, with an undertone of something earthy and agricultural from the bulb fields beyond. The children had already vanished upstairs to argue over bedroom allocation, a ritual as old as family holidays themselves.

I stood in that kitchen doorway with my tea, watching late afternoon light filter through the garden trees, and felt something shift in my chest. The drive had been ridiculous. I'd been ridiculous. But here was this small, solid place with its thatched hat and its welcoming clutter, and beyond it the promise of simple days: beach walks, cycling along flat paths even I couldn't get lost on, evenings cooking together while rain pattered against those ancient reeds. No grand monuments, no ambitious itineraries. Just the particular pleasure of being somewhere else together, of letting the world shrink to the size of a cottage and its immediate surroundings.

The children thundered downstairs announcing they'd reached a peace treaty regarding bedrooms. My partner appeared with the bags, raising an eyebrow at my tea-drinking rather than unpacking. I smiled, raised my mug, and stepped aside to let the holiday proper begin.