I have never been particularly gifted at reading sat navs, which is how I found myself reversing down a narrow farm track somewhere near Sint Annaland with a sheep giving me what I can only describe as a deeply judgmental stare. My partner, who had been confidently directing me from the passenger seat, suddenly became very interested in her phone. "It says turn left," she announced, as if this were fresh and helpful information while I was already wedged between a hedgerow and a very Dutch-looking barn.

The actual cottage, when we finally arrived, turned out to be one of those proper Zeeland holiday homes with white walls and a tidy little garden that immediately made me feel better about my navigational shame. The owner had left the key in a lockbox with a code that I managed to get wrong three times, each attempt punctuated by my partner's increasingly theatrical sighs. When the door finally clicked open, the smell of clean linen and something faintly marine drifted out to meet us.

I had packed for warm-weather walking, you see. Proper hiking boots, breathable shirts, a sun hat that made me look like an enthusiastic geography teacher. The weather forecast had promised sunshine and gentle breezes, the kind of conditions that make coastal hiking feel almost virtuous. I had plans, grand plans, about striding along the shoreline with the wind at my back and probably spotting a seal or having some other respectable nature moment.

The first morning delivered on this promise beautifully. We set out from the cottage towards the coast near Sint Annaland, following a path that threaded between fields and eventually opened onto proper coastal walking. The Oosterschelde glittered in genuine sunshine, and I felt smug in my preparedness. We walked for a good two hours, passing other hikers who nodded in that companionable way that people do when they are all having the same excellent idea. I took photographs of barnacles on rocks. I pointed out birds that I could not actually identify. It was, in short, going very well indeed.

The weather turned sometime after lunch, which we had eaten on a bench feeling rather pleased with ourselves. Clouds arrived from somewhere, thick and purposeful, and the temperature dropped in that sneaky way it does near tidal water. By mid-afternoon, what had been a pleasant coastal stroll had become something requiring actual fortitude. My breathable shirt was now actively working against me, and my geography teacher hat had to be jammed down to stop it taking off towards Belgium.

We pressed on for another hour, because I am stubborn and because I had committed to this narrative of myself as capable outdoorsman. The path became slippery. The wind found every gap in my supposedly technical clothing. My partner, who had sensibly brought a proper waterproof, walked beside me with the expression of someone who has seen this film before and did not enjoy it the first time.

That evening, back at the cottage, I stood in the shower until the hot water ran slightly tepid and contemplated my choices. The weather forecast, checked again with the desperate hope of the convert, now showed rain for the following two days. My hiking boots sat in the hallway, reproaching me with their dampness.

We adapted, of course. The next morning we did a shorter local circuit when the rain briefly paused, more of a determined stroll than a hike, returning to the cottage before the next band of weather arrived. I spent the afternoon reading a detective novel and eating stroopwafels from the village shop, which is not the active holiday I had imagined but was, I must admit, rather pleasant in its own way.

The final day brought proper sunshine again, and we managed a decent walk along a different stretch of coast, though I was more cautious in my enthusiasm by then. I checked the sky every twenty minutes like a nervous sailor. The Oosterschelde looked much the same as before, indifferent to my dramas, and I found myself laughing at how thoroughly I had been humbled by a bit of Dutch coastal weather.

We left the cottage with my boots finally dry and my pride somewhat restored, though I will say that sheep's expression still haunts me slightly. Some lessons, I suspect, are delivered repeatedly until properly learned.