The journey down to Ouddorp began well enough, or so I thought. I'd packed the car with the smug efficiency of someone who definitely had not forgotten anything important, only to discover two hours in that my swimming trunks were still dangling from the washing line in Birmingham. This was March, mind you, so the chances of actually needing them were roughly equivalent to my chances of winning EuroMillions, but still. Nothing says "organised adult" like driving through the Netherlands with your beachwear flapping in a Midlands breeze three hundred miles behind you.

We crossed from Calais as the late winter light started doing that flat, silvery thing it does over the polders, all vast sky and waterlogged fields stretching out in every direction. The further north we drove, the more the season made itself known. Bare trees stood in perfect rows like nature's own accounting system, and every canal we passed sat perfectly still, reflecting grey clouds with the enthusiasm of a mirror that has given up on life. My partner kept remarking on how "atmospheric" it all was, which I have learned is what people say when they mean "a bit bleak but we're committed to enjoying this."

Arriving at the property in Ouddorp proper, the coastal wind hit us with what I can only describe as personal animosity. This was no gentle spring breeze whispering promises of warmer days. This was North Sea wind, seasoned by months of bullying its way across open water, and it absolutely had opinions about our arrival. I wrestled our wheeled suitcase across the gravel path while it performed an impromptu escape attempt, veering toward the dunes like it had finally found its true calling.

The bungalow itself sat low and sensible against the landscape, the architectural equivalent of someone hunkering down and waiting for better weather. My first impression was of tremendous practicality. Big windows facing south to trap any available light, a compact garden that knew better than to promise summer barbecues in late March, and that particular Dutch talent for making everything clean-lined and purposeful. I loved it immediately, though perhaps "loved" is too strong for what was really a growing respect. This was a house that understood the season and refused to pretend otherwise.

Inside, the underfloor heating was already doing heroic work. We shed layers with the theatrical relief of Arctic explorers reaching base camp. The living area opened toward those same dunes, and through the bare marram grass I could just make out the North Sea doing its grey, restless thing. In summer, I imagined, this view would be all golden light and beach towels and children shrieking in multiple languages. Now it was simply honest: water, sky, wind, the bare bones of a place waiting to be dressed up by warmer months.

That first evening, we walked the empty beach as the light faded. The sand was hard-packed and cold, scattered with shells and the debris of winter storms. No ice cream vendors, no kite surfers, no cheerful Dutch families with windbreaks and elaborate picnic setups. Just us, the gulls, and the rhythmic collapse of waves that had travelled uninterrupted from Norway to tell us, personally, that we were small and temporary and should probably have brought thicker socks.

Back at the bungalow, we cooked simple food and watched the darkness settle early, as March darkness does. The season had stripped everything back to essentials, and I found myself unexpectedly grateful for it. No pressure to be constantly doing, exploring, making the most of long summer evenings. Just the quiet pleasure of being somewhere else, somewhere that made no pretence at being anything other than what it was: a coastal village in the shoulder season, waiting patiently for the world to warm up again.

I did buy some cheap swimming trunks from a supermarket in Middelburg the next day, though. Optimism, I have decided, is not seasonal.