I have always thought I was fairly decent at reading maps, but my arrival in Rijnsaterwoude rather proved otherwise. The train from Amsterdam had been blissfully smooth, and I had spent the journey feeling rather smug about my decision to explore Southern Holland on foot. I had packed my sturdiest walking boots, a sun hat I had convinced myself looked adventurous rather than ridiculous, and enough suncream to protect a small village. The weather forecast had promised nothing but blue skies and gentle breezes, and I was ready for coastal hikes and warm-weather adventures.

The mishap came when I attempted to walk from the station to my holiday home. I had glanced at the map on my phone, stuffed it back in my pocket with the confidence of someone who definitely had not memorised the route, and set off with what I can only describe as misplaced optimism. Twenty minutes later, I found myself in what appeared to be somebody's back garden, staring at a very confused-looking goat. The goat and I shared a moment of mutual bewilderment before I beat a hasty retreat, eventually locating the correct path by following a very helpful cyclist who probably thought I was either lost or stalking him. Both were true, in a sense.

The holiday home itself, when I finally reached it, was an absolute delight. A traditional Dutch property with that lovely relaxed feel you only seem to find in these smaller South Holland villages. I dumped my bags with rather more enthusiasm than grace and immediately set about planning my first proper walk. The Kaag Lakes were practically on the doorstep, and I had read about wonderful hiking routes along the waterways that practically demanded exploration in good weather.

That first evening, I wandered down to the water's edge as the sun began to dip. The light across the lakes was extraordinary, all soft gold and rose, and I sat on a bench feeling terribly pleased with myself. A family passed by on bicycles, the children chattering away in Dutch that sounded impossibly cheerful, and I thought yes, this is exactly what I needed. Warm air, open water, and the promise of days spent walking through this lovely landscape.

The following morning I woke to grey skies and a distinct chill in the air. I checked my weather app with the fervour of someone checking lottery results, but the forecast had shifted dramatically. What had promised to be a week of sunshine now looked decidedly mixed, with rain predicted for the afternoon and temperatures several degrees below what I had packed for. My sun hat suddenly seemed rather optimistic.

I set out anyway, because I am stubborn and because the lakes were still beautiful even under cloud. The path took me through meadows where cows regarded me with that particular bovine indifference I have always found oddly comforting. I walked for a couple of hours, the air growing heavier as I went, until the first drops began to fall and I had to admit defeat and turn back. I arrived at the house damp, slightly chastened, and with a newfound appreciation for the waterproof jacket I had nearly left at home.

The weather continued its capricious dance throughout my stay. Mornings of mist and drizzle would suddenly clear to reveal warm afternoons where the light turned everything magical again. I learned to be flexible, to set out early when the forecast looked promising, to embrace the changing skies rather than fight them. One particularly lovely evening, after a day of proper sunshine, I walked along the water as the clouds broke apart and the whole world seemed to glow with that special Dutch golden hour light. A heron took flight as I approached, its wings enormous and slow, and I stood there feeling wonderfully small and wonderfully alive.

I walked to nearby villages, to little harbours where boats bobbed gently, through fields where the famous Dutch tulips had given way to summer growth. The coast here is not dramatic cliffs and crashing waves but something gentler, water and land merging in ways that shift with every season. I grew to love this subtle landscape, the way the weather painted it differently each day.

By the end of my stay, I had abandoned any pretence of controlling my walks with rigid plans. I simply set out each morning, sometimes in sunshine, sometimes in soft rain, and let the paths lead me where they would. That goat and I had made our peace too, I passed its field several times and we acknowledged each other with what I choose to believe was mutual respect.

I left Rijnsaterwoude with damp boots, a slightly ridiculous tan line from my sun hat, and a genuine affection for a place that had gently taught me the wisdom of going with the flow, weather and all.