I have never been so grateful to see a kettle in my entire life. After six hours on the road from Dover, a Channel crossing that felt longer than my last relationship, and one spectacularly wrong turn that took us through what I can only describe as "aggressive countryside," we finally rolled into Vinkeveen. I was convinced my other half had been navigating via ouija board.

The mishap came ten minutes from the property. Relying on a sat nav with the approximate sentience of a confused pigeon, we turned down a road that grew narrower with each metre until we were essentially driving through someone's front garden. A very Dutch someone, who emerged from their house with the calm patience of a person who has watched many tourists make this exact mistake. My partner waved apologetically. I slid down in my seat and pretended to be deeply interested in the floor mat. We reversed for what felt like three hundred metres of pure humiliation, guided by hand signals from a man who definitely went inside to laugh about us later.

When we finally found the right turning, I nearly wept with relief. The property sat among the kind of flat, watery landscape that makes you understand why the Dutch are so good at engineering. Canals everywhere. Reeds whispering in that particular way they do near water. The sky seemed to take up about eighty percent of the available space.

Stepping out of the car, my legs performed that post-motorway wobble where you forget how walking works. The air smelled of damp earth and something green growing. It was properly quiet too, not the performative silence of the countryside that still manages traffic noise, but a genuine hush broken only by distant birds and what I later learned was a neighbour's small boat puttering past.

The key collection went smoothly, which surprised me given our navigational performance. Inside, the place had that immediate holiday-cottage smell of clean linen and slightly aged wood. Compact but not cramped. Whoever designed the layout understood that people on holiday accumulate stuff randomly and need surfaces. I appreciated this deeply.

I made straight for the kettle, naturally. My partner wandered about opening cupboards with the curiosity of someone inspecting a potential purchase. The windows looked out onto water, actual water, with little jetties and boats tied up. I stood there with my tea, still wearing one shoe because I had kicked the other off in the car and forgotten to retrieve it, and felt something in my shoulders finally release.

We had brought food for the first evening, sensible after the journey. I unpacked it with the methodical slowness of a person whose brain has not yet caught up with their body. Cheese, bread, some tomatoes. The basics. My partner attempted to work the hob and produced a noise that suggested we would be eating cold food, but persistence won out and we managed hot dinner like functional adults.

Sitting there as the light faded, water turning silver-grey outside, I thought about how I had stressed about the journey for days. The wrong turn, the tiredness, the slight absurdity of two people who barely manage daily life attempting travel, it all dissolved into something manageable. We were here. The kettle worked. Nothing was on fire.

I finished my tea and immediately wanted another. Some habits travel well.