I have never been so grateful for a thermos of tea in my entire life, and that includes the time I attempted to climb Snowdon in November wearing trainers. The drive to Femmøller in Djursland had been going so well, you see. I'd left Aarhus with a full tank, a packet of digestive biscuits, and that particular smugness that comes from having remembered to pack waterproof trousers. Then, somewhere between Grenaa and the coast, my phone decided that Danish country roads were the perfect place to switch itself off and refuse all encouragement. I spent twenty minutes on a lay-by performing what I can only describe as technological CPR, got it working, immediately missed my turning, and found myself in a farmyard being inspected by three extremely judgmental goats. By the time I reached the little cluster of holiday homes at Femmøller, I had eaten all the biscuits and developed a twitch.

The cottage itself, when I finally staggered up to it, looked like something from a particularly wholesome postcard. Red wooden walls, white trim, that satisfying Scandinavian solidity that makes British holiday lets feel slightly apologetic by comparison. I dumped my bags, made the tea I so desperately needed, and stood at the window watching the light change over the fields. The plan, hatched in a sunny Aarhus café that morning, had been simple: walk the coastal path to Femmøller Strand, loop back through the woods, be back for dinner with that pleasant tiredness that justifies a large glass of wine. The sky, I noted with the doomed optimism of a lifelong Briton abroad, looked a bit grey. Nothing threatening, though. Probably just Danish atmospheric character.

I set off with my inadequate jacket and a borrowed map from the cottage, feeling rather intrepid. The path started beautifully, winding through low scrub and the occasional stand of beech, the sea visible in promising glimpses. I passed another walker, a Danish woman with proper boots and the kind of expression that suggested she had already assessed my footwear and found it wanting. We exchanged nods, that international language of people who are not quite lost enough to admit it.

The rain started as a suggestion, then a negotiation, then an absolute decree. I found shelter under a pine tree that offered roughly the protection of a colander, consulted my map with increasing desperation, and made the executive decision to press on to the beach rather than retreat. This was, in retrospect, a characteristically British error: the conviction that weather which has already proven hostile will somehow improve if one simply demonstrates sufficient stoicism. The path to Femmøller Strand became a small river. My trainers, never suitable, achieved a state of complete surrender. The beach itself, when I finally emerged onto it, was magnificent in a bleak, North Sea sort of way, all grey water and pale sand and that particular wind that finds every gap in your clothing. I stood there for perhaps three minutes, pretending to appreciate the wild beauty, then turned back with the hurried dignity of a man who has made a terrible mistake.

The return walk was an education in humility. I took a wrong path somewhere in the beech woods, found myself in a field of startlingly aggressive gorse, and eventually emerged onto a lane I did not recognise with the light fading and my feet making that unpleasant squelching noise that indicates complete saturation. A local dog walker, encountering my bedraggled figure, gave me directions in excellent English that managed to be helpful without quite concealing her amusement. I trudged back to the cottage as the first stars appeared, leaving a trail of dampness that would probably still be visible to forensic investigators.

That evening, wrapped in a blanket with the heating on and a restorative aquavit, I examined my ruined map and laughed properly for the first time since the goats. There is something about being thoroughly defeated by the elements, I think, that strips away any pretence of competence. I had come to Djursland with my walking plans and my waterproof trousers and my sense of being a reasonably capable outdoorsman, and the Danish weather had treated all of it with the contempt it probably deserved. The next morning, I walked to the local shop for supplies and took a gentle, cautious stroll along a marked trail, turning back at the first hint of cloud. It was lovely. I saw a deer, startled a pheasant, and returned dry and smug in a completely different, more earned way. Some lessons, apparently, require a thorough soaking before they stick. I still have the map, dried and crumpled, as a reminder that the best walks are sometimes the ones where you do not get precisely what you planned.