I have never been so grateful for a thermos of tea in my entire life. We had been driving from the Eurotunnel for what felt like half a lifetime, winding through Belgian motorways and then crossing into the Netherlands with that slightly smug feeling you get when you remember to drive on the right. The mishap came just outside Middelburg, where I confidently ignored the satnav and took what I called a scenic route. My partner called it something else entirely. Three dead ends, one very narrow bridge that made me question every life choice, and a tense moment with a cyclist later, we finally found the turning for Sint Annannaland.

It was mid-October, that awkward shoulder season where summer has definitely left the building but winter has not quite committed to showing up. The light was doing that extraordinary Dutch thing, all low and golden and stretched across the flat landscape like butter on warm bread. I had expected Zeeland to feel a bit bleak at this time of year, if I am honest. I had packed accordingly, with thick jumpers and a waterproof jacket that rustles like a crisp packet whenever I move. I need not have worried about the bleakness. The bleakness was having the year off.

The holiday house sat on a quiet street near the marina, one of those solid brick places with big windows that seemed to drink in whatever sunlight was going. The key was in the lockbox exactly where the instructions said, which already put this property ahead of roughly seventy percent of my previous self-catering experiences. I fumbled with the code, fingers still slightly numb from standing outside in that particular autumn wind that comes off the Oosterschelde. It is not a cruel wind, not like something you would get on the Scottish coast. It is more insistent than hostile, a wind that wants to remind you it is there and that you are, technically, on a peninsula surrounded by water on three sides.

Stepping inside was like walking into a well-organised hug. The heating had been left on low, presumably by thoughtful owners who understood that October travellers arrive with damp shoes and slightly frayed nerves. The living room smelled of clean linen and something else, something woody and comforting that I later decided was probably just good central heating but chose to imagine was deliberate ambience. Big sliding doors looked out towards the water, and the late afternoon light was pouring through them in a way that made me immediately abandon my plan to unpack and instead just stand there like a lemon, holding my coat.

The seasonal timing shaped everything about those first hours. In high summer, I imagine you would throw open those doors and live outside, cycling to the beach and eating dinner at nine o'clock with the sun still hanging about. In deep winter, you would probably hunker down with the heating cranked up and venture out only for necessities. But October occupied this lovely in-between space. It was warm enough to leave the doors ajar for a bit, letting that distinctive Zeeland air in, air that carries salt and mudflat and something faintly agricultural from the surrounding fields. Cool enough, though, that you wanted to be back inside with a jumper on before the light started to fade.

I made that tea, finally, and we sat at the kitchen table watching the sky turn through its evening repertoire. The marina was quiet, most of the pleasure boats already lifted out for winter, a few hardy souls still bobbing at their moorings. A man in a waxed jacket walked a dog along the waterfront. Everything felt slowed down, deliberately so, as if the whole place had collectively decided that October was for easing off the accelerator.

My partner, who had been significantly less keen on this autumn break than I was, looked up from their phone and said something quietly appreciative about the light. I did not make a big thing of it. But I noticed. That is the thing about coming to somewhere like Sint Annaland at this time of year. You notice things more. The summer crowds would have dulled the edges, made everything a bit more convenient and a bit less memorable. The October version asked slightly more of you, demanded a decent coat and a willingness to make your own entertainment, and repaid you with moments of genuine, unhurried beauty.

The heating clicked on. Somewhere outside, a bird I could not identify made a noise that sounded like a complaint. I finished my tea and finally started to unpack, feeling already like this particular mistake of ignoring the satnav had led somewhere worth being.