I have to admit, my first attempt at reaching our Breukelen holiday home was not what you'd call a triumph of navigation. Having confidently told my partner I "had it sorted," I promptly led us on a forty-minute detour through what felt like every cobbled backstreet in the province. The sat nav had given up in disgust somewhere near the A2, and I was too stubborn to admit defeat. We eventually found the place by pure accident, spotting the familiar NovaSOL sign down a lane I'd sworn we'd already tried twice. My partner gave me that look. You know the one.

But here's the thing about Breukelen, and indeed this corner of Utrecht generally: getting lost is rather the point. The property itself sits in that satisfyingly ambiguous zone between proper countryside and commuter territory, the kind of place where you half expect to find a hidden tea garden around every hedge-lined corner. Our cottage turned out to be a converted outbuilding with beams that threatened decapitation for anyone over five foot ten, myself included. I spent the first evening walking with a permanent stoop, which my partner found hilarious until she cracked her own elbow on the bathroom doorframe.

The real magic began the next morning when I set out for what was meant to be a straightforward walk to the local shop. I took a wrong turning almost immediately, mistaking a private driveway for a public footpath, and found myself in a small wood I'd never have known existed. Through sheer luck, I emerged beside a narrow canal I'd not seen on any map, where an elderly Dutchman was fishing with a patience I found almost offensive. He nodded, I nodded back, and we shared perhaps the most peaceful ten minutes of my entire year. I never did find that shop.

This became the pattern of our stay. The Vecht river, which I'd initially dismissed as merely convenient for the property's location, revealed itself to be a corridor of tiny surprises. We stumbled upon a hidden orchard by following a dog who clearly knew better routes than we did. We found a cafe in what appeared to be someone's front room, identifiable only by a handwritten card in the window and the smell of excellent coffee drifting across a vegetable patch. The owner spoke virtually no English and my Dutch extends to "alstublieft" and "dank u wel," yet somehow we negotiated a splendid lunch involving cheese I still dream about.

My favourite accidental discovery came on our third day. Having set out for the Kasteel Nijenrode, which sits practically on Breukelen's doorstep, we took a speculative left turn to avoid a muddy stretch and found ourselves in a tiny hamlet where someone had created an elaborate sculpture garden from scrap metal and agricultural machinery. It was extraordinary, completely unmarked, and apparently known only to locals and the occasional idiot tourist wandering off-piste. I spent twenty minutes photographing a life-sized cow made from what I suspect were old milk churns, while my partner chatted with a woman walking her bicycle who explained, with admirable restraint, that we'd missed the castle entirely and were now heading in roughly the opposite direction.

By the end of the week, I'd abandoned any pretence of purposeful exploration. The property's location, it turned out, was perfectly designed for glorious meandering. We found our way to the riverside paths proper, discovered that Breukelen's own modest high street had a bakery worth the stumble, and learned that the train to Amsterdam was temptingly close whenever we felt the need for something more structured. Mostly, we didn't.

I returned home with a bruised forehead, a collection of inexplicable photographs, and a genuine appreciation for what happens when you stop trying to get somewhere specific. My partner now insists on holding the map, which seems fair enough.