I'd been looking forward to our week at the Mommark in Als for what felt like ages. The ferry from Puttgarden to Rodby was surprisingly smooth, which should have been my first warning that something had to go wrong eventually. We piled into the car at the other end, full of that slightly smug holiday energy, and promptly got lost in what I can only describe as a very flat nowhere. My partner was navigating using a phone that kept insisting we were already at our destination, despite the distinct lack of any buildings whatsoever. Just fields, more fields, and the occasional cow giving us a judgmental stare.

The mishap came when we finally spotted what we thought was our cottage. I reversed confidently into the gravel drive, feeling rather pleased with myself, and immediately heard a crunch that no holidaymaker ever wants to hear. I'd backed straight into a wooden post that was apparently there to mark the boundary. The post wobbled dramatically, then somehow righted itself like a drunk at closing time. I sat there, hands still on the wheel, waiting for the inevitable collapse. It never came. The post remained upright, slightly askew but defiant. I decided this was a victory and chose not to mention it again until my partner spotted the fresh scrape on the bumper approximately four seconds later.

The actual property, when we found it two minutes down the lane, was considerably more charming than my parking attempt. A traditional Danish holiday home with that distinctive wooden cladding, all very hygge without trying too hard. The key was in the lockbox as promised, though I managed to drop it into a flowerbed while fumbling with the code. There I was, on my hands and knees in someone else's geraniums, muttering about technology while my partner filmed the whole thing for posterity. I have not been allowed to forget this.

Stepping inside for the first time, the smell hit me immediately. That particular combination of pine, slightly damp wool, and whatever cleaning product Danish holiday companies favour. It was not unpleasant, merely specific. The sort of smell that tells you immediately: you are not at home, and this is precisely the point. The living area was open-plan in that practical Scandinavian way, with enormous windows looking out towards what I later learned was the Lillebaelt strait glinting in the distance. I stood there with my bag still on my shoulder, suddenly aware of how much unnecessary clothing I'd packed for a week that was clearly going to involve considerable amounts of sitting still and looking at water.

The kitchen was compact but thoughtfully arranged, everything within actual arm's reach rather than the theatrical stretching required in my flat. I opened a cupboard expecting mugs and found instead an impressive collection of board games, several with Danish instructions that I mentally filed under "future problem." Another cupboard revealed the mugs, plus a teapot shaped like a lighthouse that I immediately decided was coming home with us in spirit if not in actual fact.

My partner had already disappeared to investigate the bedrooms, returning with the news that one featured bunk beds and that she had already called dibs on the top one "for old times' sake." I am forty-three. The thought of climbing a ladder at six in the morning for the loo did not appeal. I said nothing, conserving my energy for battles that actually mattered.

The garden, when I finally ventured out, was where the place really announced itself. A proper Danish plot, not manicured but maintained, with a wooden terrace that creaked satisfyingly underfoot and that view I'd glimpsed from inside now presented in full. The water was doing that particular silvery thing it does in late afternoon, and somewhere a dog barked with the relaxed cadence of an animal that has never known urban stress. I found the barbecue, slightly rusted but functional, and made a mental note to buy sausages before doing anything else. Priorities.

The post I'd attacked earlier was still on my mind, a small symbol of my general competence level. I mentioned it again, hoping for some shared commiseration, but my partner was too busy photographing a bumblebee on the lavender. Some things, I realised, are better accepted than explained. I was in a beautiful place with someone who found bumblebees worth photographing, and I had technically not destroyed any property. The scrape would buff out, probably. The post would stand as testament, or perhaps warning, to future visitors.

By evening we'd managed to assemble a basic meal from the random assortment of supplies we'd brought, sitting on that creaking terrace with wine in plastic cups because of course the proper glasses were still wrapped in newspaper somewhere in the car. The light lasted forever, that northern summer generosity that still surprises me every time. We talked about nothing much, watched a heron land awkwardly on a neighbouring roof, and gradually let the journey and the mishaps settle into something like contentment.

I woke once in the night, disoriented by the unfamiliar quiet, and padded to the window to find the garden transformed by moonlight into something almost theatrical. The offending post cast a shadow like a sundial marking some hour I couldn't calculate. I thought about the months of anticipation, the ferry booking, the careful packing, and how quickly it all collapses into something simpler once you actually arrive. The chaos of getting there, the small humiliations of arrival, they don't disappear exactly. They become part of the texture, the story you'll tell later with more laughter than embarrassment. I went back to bed, slightly cold, slightly happy, already rehearsing how I'd describe the lighthouse teapot to friends back home.

The morning brought proper coffee, Danish butter from the little supermarket in Mommark village, and the realisation that I'd left my decent walking boots in the car boot all along. Some patterns, I suspect, follow you everywhere.