I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I confidently marched up to the wrong cottage and tried to unlock the door with my key fob, much to the confusion of a rather startled Dutch gentleman eating his sandwich in the window. Turns out number forty-seven and number seventy-four are not, in fact, interchangeable, and my GCSE maths had failed me at the first hurdle. After a red-faced apology and a brisk walk two streets over, I finally arrived at the proper place, cheeks burning and family in tow, already providing entertainment for the neighbours.

The journey from Harwich had been surprisingly painless, all things considered. The ferry crossing was calm, the motorways were sensible, and we only had one minor disagreement about whose turn it was to choose the music. My youngest had discovered Dutch radio and spent forty-five minutes bobbing along to something that sounded suspiciously like techno-accordion, which I am fairly certain has damaged me permanently. But we rolled into Noordwijk with spirits high and bladders full, ready for our week of coastal calm.

First impressions of the cottage proper, once I located the wretched thing, were genuinely lovely. It had that satisfying Scandinavian-meets-Dutch thing going on, all pale wood and enormous windows that let the afternoon light pour across the living room floor. My daughter immediately claimed the window seat for her reading nook, and my son discovered the garden path led directly to a little terrace where he could survey his temporary kingdom. I stood in the kitchen doorway with a cup of tea, feeling rather pleased with myself despite the earlier key fob debacle.

The garden was what sold it, really. Not grand or fussy, just a decent patch of grass with a proper outdoor table and one of those kettle barbecues that makes every British dad feel like he could compete on a cookery programme. Beyond the hedge, you could glimpse the dunes, and if the wind was right, you caught that marvellous salty North Sea smell that makes you want to kick off your shoes and forget about everything. My wife opened all the windows, declared the place "properly airy," and immediately started planning which local shop would supply our breakfast provisions.

What struck me most, wandering around those first few hours, was how quickly the cottage started to feel like ours. The books left on the shelf, the slightly mismatched mugs in the cupboard, the way the floorboard creaked just so by the bathroom door. It is a peculiar magic, staying somewhere that is not yours but becomes yours temporarily. I found myself putting my feet up on the coffee table without thinking, which I would never do at home, and wondering what that says about me. Probably nothing profound. Probably just that holidays turn us all into slightly more relaxed, slightly more selfish versions of ourselves, and perhaps that is no bad thing.

We walked to the beach that first evening, not five minutes through the dunes, and watched the light fade over the water while the kids chased each other with ice creams. Noordwijk has that knack of feeling busy enough to be cheerful but never overwhelming, families and dog walkers and the occasional serious-looking cyclist. We did not do anything remarkable. We just were there, together, slightly sandy, slightly chilly, and entirely content with our little cottage and our little corner of the Dutch coast.