I had convinced myself that driving from Aarhus to Grenaa would be a doddle. Two hours, tops, I told my partner, waving my phone about with the confidence of someone who had briefly glanced at Google Maps three days prior. Three and a half hours later, we were still circling some nameless roundabout near Ebeltoft, bickering about whether "Grenaa" was pronounced with one 'n' or two, and whether we had accidentally crossed into Sweden. We had not, obviously, but when you have been in a Vauxhall Corsa for the better part of an afternoon, rational thought tends to evacuate the premises.

The mishap that truly crowned our arrival, however, was the key safe. The lovely folk at the holiday home had sent detailed instructions, complete with photographs and a four-digit code. I am not a stupid man, or so I like to believe, yet I spent a solid twelve minutes tugging at what turned out to be the electricity meter box. A neighbour emerged at one point, watched me struggle with the patience of someone who had seen this exact pantomime before, and gently directed me three metres to the left. The actual key safe opened immediately. I laughed, she did not, and I decided that humility is a virtue best practised in foreign countries where nobody knows your surname.

Stepping into the house at Grenaa Strand proper was like walking into one of those Danish interiors accounts you follow on Instagram and quietly resent. Everything was pale wood and clever storage and windows that seemed designed to frame the Kattegat like a living painting. I had packed for what I assumed would be bracing Scandinavian weather, heavy jumpers and sensible trousers and a waterproof jacket that could survive a maritime disaster. The first morning, I pulled the lot on with the grim determination of a British person preparing to be disappointed by weather, and stepped outside into glorious sunshine.

We walked north along the beach, the sand compact and easy underfoot, passing the odd dog walker and a man who appeared to be metal detecting with the seriousness of someone seeking buried treasure rather than loose change. The path curved inland through low dunes covered in marram grass, and we found ourselves on one of those typical Djursland trails that seem to meander without urgency through birch woodland and open meadow. My partner, who had sensibly worn trainers rather than my ostentatious hiking boots, moved with the easy grace of someone not breaking in new leather.

The British weather arrived on day three, though it came from the east rather than any meteorological loyalty to the homeland. I woke to grey skies and a wind that seemed personally offended by our presence. We had planned a longer loop down towards the harbour, perhaps a coffee in Grenaa proper, but within twenty minutes of setting out, horizontal rain found every gap in my allegedly waterproof coat. We retreated to the house like soggy veterans, brewed enormous pots of tea, and watched the Kattegat turn the colour of old pewter.

The following afternoon brought a false spring, warm enough to tempt us out again. We walked south this time, along the coastal path towards the wooded areas near the beach park, where the trail becomes properly hilly and your thighs remind you that Denmark is not actually flat, merely flat-adjacent. The mixed woodland smelled of damp earth and pine, and we spotted deer tracks in the soft ground near a small stream. I felt rather smug about my boots then, the leather finally moulding to my feet, though I kept this to myself given my earlier performance with the key safe.

The weather turned once more before we left, a proper North Sea blow that sent us scurrying back from a morning stroll with our hoods pulled tight and our conversation reduced to shouted observations about the wind. We spent that final afternoon drying clothes on the clever Danish radiators and plotting walks we would take when we returned, which felt like the most honest holiday tradition I know. The Kattegat had shown us sun and spite in equal measure, and we had walked through both, slightly underdressed and frequently lost, but thoroughly glad to be there.