I should have known the Dutch weather would have the last laugh when I packed three jumpers and forgot my waterproof coat. There I was, trundling down the A29 towards Strijen in late October, autumn rain lashing the windscreen while my partner smugly reminded me that he'd checked the forecast. Twice.

The journey from the Hook of Holland had been straightforward enough, flat fields giving way to flatter fields, the occasional windmill appearing like a postcard I'd accidentally wandered into. But the real comedy began when we arrived at our holiday home, a traditional Strijen property with that handsome brick facade and proper Dutch gable. I'd insisted on carrying the bags, determined to be useful, and promptly stepped straight into a puddle that turned out to be a small flooded ditch disguised by fallen leaves. My left boot made a sound like a disappointed walrus. The woman from the key collection service didn't laugh, bless her, but her eyes definitely crinkled.

Autumn in Southern Holland doesn't mess about. The property sat among trees that were having their final glorious argument with the season, golds and russets clinging on while the wind did its best to strip them bare. Inside, the holiday home felt immediately like a refuge. Thick walls, wooden floors that creaked with character, and heating that actually worked, thank goodness. I abandoned my sodden boot by the door and padded about in socks, discovering that the place had been set up with the season in mind - extra blankets folded on the beds, a proper coffee machine for dark mornings, and someone had even left a packet of speculaas biscuits, those spiced autumn biscuits the Dutch do so well.

The light at that time of year is something else entirely. Even mid-morning, it came through the windows at that low, golden angle that makes everything look like a painting. We spent the first afternoon not venturing far, just drinking coffee and watching the weather perform its hourly costume change - sudden downpours, then breakthrough sunshine that steamed the puddles, then back again. The garden, what I could see of it between showers, had that particular late-year melancholy, dahlias drooping but still colourful, the lawn scattered with leaves we'd obviously not be expected to rake.

I found myself unexpectedly moved by it all. There's something about arriving somewhere in the off-season that strips away performance. No pressure to be out constantly, to maximise every sunlit hour. The grey skies and early dusk gave us permission to simply be there, to read, to cook simple meals in the kitchen, to notice how the property's old wooden beams caught the lamplight differently as the evenings drew in.

We did venture to the local shop in Strijen village, me squelching slightly in my one remaining dry boot, and bought bread and cheese and those ridiculous stroopwafels that you're supposed to warm over coffee but we ate cold because patience isn't my virtue. The shopkeeper asked about our journey in that direct Dutch way, and when I mentioned my puddle mishap, she nodded seriously and said, "October," as if that explained everything wrong with the world.

That evening, rain drumming against the windows, we sat with the lamps on and played cards badly while outside the autumn darkness closed in early and completely. I thought about how different this would feel in July, all barbecues and late light and probably mosquitos. This was better somehow, more honest. The season had forced us into a smaller, cosier world, and the holiday home had risen to meet it, offering warmth and shelter and those little seasonal touches that show someone thought about what October actually feels like.

My boot never fully recovered, incidentally. It sits in our cupboard now, slightly misshapen, a ridiculous souvenir. But whenever I see it, I remember that first squelch, the crinkled eyes of the key lady, and the particular golden-grey magic of a Southern Holland autumn that turned a simple arrival into something worth remembering.