I have never been brilliant with ferries, and the crossing from Bredstedt to Sonderburg proved no exception. There I was, clutching a coffee that had gone cold somewhere around Hamburg, convinced I looked like a seasoned Scandinavian traveller. The reality was rather different: wind-whipped hair, a sat nav that had given up the ghost just past the Danish border, and the dawning realisation that I had packed approximately seventeen jumpers but not a single working torch.

The cottage at Kobingsmark Strand sat somewhere between the little town and the water, and finding it in the grey half-light of a September evening became something of an expedition. The roads narrowed. The hedgerows grew more assertive. At one point I found myself in a farmyard being inspected by a cat with evident opinions about my life choices. When I finally spotted the little cluster of wooden holiday homes, I felt the sort of relief usually reserved for finding a toilet after a long motorway stretch.

The mishap, when it came, was entirely my own doing. I had the key code, you see, and I had written it down with great care on the back of a petrol receipt. What I had not done was remember which pocket held said receipt. I emptied my jacket onto the bonnet like a magician revealing a disappointing trick: mints, a broken pen, a Lego brick of mysterious origin, and finally, triumphantly, the crumpled scrap of paper. The code worked. The door opened. I stepped inside and promptly tripped over the doormat, which had curled itself into a defensive position against the damp.

First impressions, once I had righted myself, were rather lovely in that understated Danish way. The place smelled of pine and something faintly maritime, which I choose to believe was authentic coastal atmosphere rather than a clever air freshener. The living area opened towards windows that would, in daylight, frame the sort of view that makes you forgive a great deal. At that moment they framed only my own reflection looking slightly wild-eyed, but I could sense the promise.

I made the traditional holiday error of exploring every room before unpacking, which meant I discovered the boiler cupboard, the under-stairs storage, and the small balcony in rapid succession. The balcony door stuck slightly, requiring a shoulder technique I perfected in various rented flats throughout my twenties. The reward was a rush of cold Baltic air and the unmistakable sound of water somewhere beyond the darkness. I stood there in my inadequate jumper, listening to waves I could not see, and felt something shift in my chest. It might have been the beginning of relaxation. It might have been indigestion from service station food. Either way, it felt significant.

The kitchen yielded a proper coffee pot and little else by way of supplies, so my first evening became a scavenging operation. I found a jar of something that might have been fish paste, decided against it with the wisdom of the exhausted, and made do with crackers and a beer from the little supermarket I had passed in Sonderburg. I ate at the small table, watching the windows for first light, already forgiving myself the ferry confusion and the farmyard detour and the undignified wrestling with the doormat.

Some holidays announce themselves with sunshine and seamless arrival. Others, like this one, begin with mild chaos and the particular humility of realising you are not, in fact, the competent traveller you imagined. I fell asleep to the distant sound of the sea, still wearing my socks, already rather fond of the place for not judging my dishevelment.