I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I missed the turning for Sint Annaland twice. There I was, sat-nav insisting I go straight on, me insisting the sat-nav had lost the plot, and my youngest in the back asking if we were in Belgium yet. We were not in Belgium. We were in Zeeland, barely ten minutes from where we needed to be, and I had just confidently driven past the same windmill for the second time. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "shall I just check my phone" look. I refused. Third time lucky, and there it was: the little cluster of cottages near the marina, all neat brick and proper Dutch tidiness.

The mishap that really set the tone, though, happened five minutes after we finally stopped. I flung open the boot to grab the suitcases, and out rolled a bottle of washing-up liquid I had wedged in at Dover. It hit the gravel, cap flew off, and a stream of lemon-scented foam shot directly into my left trainer. There is something deeply humbling about standing in a foreign car park with a soggy foot, watching your family try not to laugh. I joined in eventually. You have to, don't you? Otherwise you'd spend your whole holiday sulking about dish soap.

The cottage itself was one of those proper family setups you find all over Zeeland. Nothing flashy, nothing trying too hard. Just clean lines, enough space that you are not constantly bumping elbows, and a little terrace where you can sit with a cup of tea and watch the boats in the marina. I limped inside with my damp foot and immediately felt the tension of the drive start to dissolve. The place had that lived-in, unpretentious feel. Wooden furniture that has seen a few summers. A kitchen that actually had decent knives, which is rarer than it should be in holiday lets.

The kids shot off to investigate the bedrooms before I could even work out which was ours. I heard a shriek of delight from upstairs, then a thump, then silence. Parenting instinct kicked in, but it was just the youngest discovering bunk beds. You forget how little it takes at that age. A ladder to a top bunk is basically an amusement park.

I stood in the little living area, still in my one clean trainer and one squelching one, and had one of those moments. You know when you suddenly realise you have been running on pure adrenaline for weeks? Work, school runs, the general chaos of ordinary life. And here I was, in a modest cottage in a quiet corner of the Netherlands, with absolutely nothing demanding my attention except whether to unpack now or have a beer first. I chose beer. Obviously. Sat on that terrace, watching the light go soft over the marina, listening to my lot bicker cheerfully about who got which bunk.

The funny thing about holidays like this is how quickly you stop caring about the small disasters. The missed turnings, the washing-up liquid incident, the fact I had packed three phone chargers and not a single proper pair of socks. It all fades into the background noise. What stays with you is the simplicity of it. A clean, comfortable cottage. Water nearby. Space to breathe. Family around you, even when they are being mildly irritating.

By the time we wandered down to find somewhere for dinner, my foot had dried out and my dignity had mostly recovered. Sint Annaland itself is not trying to impress anyone, and that is precisely its charm. A few shops, a handful of places to eat, that lovely marina where people actually keep boats they use rather than just polish. We found a simple cafe, had pancakes that were far too large, and walked back slowly as the evening cooled.

That first day set the pattern for the whole break. Nothing rushed, nothing complicated. Just the straightforward pleasure of being somewhere else together, in a cottage that felt like it wanted you to relax rather than admire it. I kept that soggy trainer for the rest of the week as a reminder. Sometimes the holidays that start with a small disaster end up being the ones you remember most fondly.