I have never been so happy to see a bungalow in my entire life. Three hours after leaving Surrey, two wrong turns around Antwerp, and one spectacular argument with a sat nav that insisted on pronouncing Heinkenszand as "Hankensand," we finally crawled into Zeeland. The mishap, though? That came about twenty minutes from the property, when I confidently announced we needed "just a quick stop for supplies" at what I swore was a supermarket. It was a garden centre. A very nice garden centre, admittedly, with excellent tulip bulbs and a tremendous selection of ceramic gnomes, but not somewhere you can buy milk or bread or anything remotely useful for feeding a family of four. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The children found it hilarious, of course, which only made things worse.

By the time we actually found the holiday park, I was in that peculiar state of frazzled exhaustion where everything becomes either hilarious or deeply upsetting, with no middle ground. But then we turned onto the little lane, and there it was: our cottage for the week, all neat and welcoming with its tidy garden and that particular stillness you only get in places where the sea is nearby but not quite visible yet. The kind of stillness that makes you realise you've been holding your breath for approximately four hours.

The first thing that struck me was the light. Zeeland light is different somehow, cleaner and more generous than the greyish stuff we get at home. It poured through the windows of the cottage, making even my tired, travel-worn face look almost healthy in the hallway mirror. The children had already shot off to investigate the bedrooms, and I could hear the inevitable squabble over who got which bed beginning upstairs. I left them to it and wandered through to the living area, which had that satisfying combination of being properly comfortable without trying too hard to be stylish. The sort of place where you can actually put your feet up without worrying about damaging someone's "vision."

I stepped outside into the garden, and that was when the proper unwinding began. There was a small patio with a table and chairs, the kind of setup that practically demands a cold beer and a period of doing absolutely nothing. Beyond the fence, I could see the flat, open landscape that Zeeland does so well, all those big skies and tidy fields stretching out towards the coast. A bicycle went past, ridden by someone who looked like they had never experienced traffic in their life. I envied them profoundly.

My wife emerged from what she termed "a very sensible kitchen" and we stood there together, listening to the children arguing upstairs and the distant sound of what might have been church bells or possibly just a very contented cow. "We should do this more often," she said, and I agreed, knowing full well that we probably would not, that life would get in the way as it always does, but grateful anyway for this particular week stretching out ahead of us.

The garden centre incident was forgotten by teatime, though the ceramic gnome my youngest had somehow acquired during our brief visit sat on the patio looking judgmental for the rest of the week. I rather grew to like him.