There’s something funny about holidays. We chase them like they’re little pockets of freedom, stuff them with sunsets and sandy feet, and then spend the rest of the year trying to relive them through photos that never quite do the trick. I used to think every trip had to be bigger than the last. Farther, fancier, with more local cocktails I couldn’t pronounce. But a few years ago, I stumbled into something else entirely. Something still, rooted. A mobile home. Fixed, not one of those cart-around types. And that changed everything.
It was in the borderlands between the Netherlands and Germany. That corner of Europe where cows outnumber cars and the loudest noise is usually the breeze rattling through birch trees. Someone I barely knew was selling a spot they barely used anymore. A bit of a forgotten dream, really. It had peeling paint and a crooked deck chair, but also an honest kind of charm. I wasn’t looking for a holiday home, but that’s the thing with holidays. Sometimes they find you first.
The funny part? I didn’t even love it straight away. The tap dripped. The bed creaked. There was a weird stain on the ceiling that looked like a goat if you squinted. But I kept going back. Because, despite all its quirks, there was peace in that place. Not the showy kind you get at a spa, but the quiet knowing that no one expected anything of you for a while. No emails. No schedules. Just the low rustle of pine trees and a mug of coffee gone cold while you forgot the time.
There’s a different rhythm when your holiday doesn’t involve airports or suitcase zippers. It sneaks up on you. At some point, you stop trying to make memories and start letting them happen. Like that night we grilled sausages on a broken fire pit because we forgot the gas for the stove. Or the day we cycled into a town that wasn’t even on the map, only to find a bakery that made the best apple tart I’ve ever had. Still think about that tart sometimes. Not the name of the town. Just the tart.
But here’s where it gets a bit strange. After a while, the place became less of a getaway and more of a… storage unit for nostalgia. Life moved on, as it does. New jobs, new places, new priorities. The pine trees didn’t seem so romantic when the roof started leaking. And suddenly, I was one of those people with a forgotten mobile home, half-hidden behind brambles and good intentions.
That’s when I heard about https://wijkopenstacaravans.nl/chalet-verkopen/. They buy second-hand chalets, the kind that stay put. Not trailers, but the grounded ones, often quietly weathering the seasons on a small plot somewhere near the Dutch-German border. Turns out, there are plenty of people looking to start fresh in a place just like I once did. And honestly, there was something comforting about that. Knowing the space might become someone else’s first grilled sausage story. Or their own weird goat stain ceiling moment.
What nobody tells you is that letting go of a holiday spot can feel just as meaningful as finding it. Because it’s not really the place we hold onto, but the feeling. The slow mornings. The accidental discoveries. The fact that for a short while, life didn’t feel quite so rushed. You can’t pack that in a suitcase, but it stays with you all the same.
Sometimes I think about going back. Just to see. But then again, maybe it’s better as a memory. Not everything needs to be kept in order to be cherished. And someone else might be sitting on that same crooked deck chair now, feet up, watching the clouds go by and wondering why the tap keeps dripping. Let them.
Holidays don’t have to be five-star or far-flung. They just need space. And stillness. A place where time wobbles a little, like an old table with uneven legs. If you’re lucky, you find that once or twice in life. If you’re really lucky, you know when to pass it on.
