I have never been so relieved to see a set of self-catering instructions in my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive to Ebeltoft Strand took us the best part of a day, winding up from Esbjerg where we had caught the ferry from Harwich. My partner had insisted we take the scenic route through the Danish countryside, which sounds lovely until you are three hours in with two children asking if we are there yet in increasingly creative ways. The youngest had progressed from simple whining to full philosophical debate about why holidays even exist. Fair question, frankly.

We rolled into East Jutland as the afternoon light was doing that golden thing across the fields, all rolling green and tidy farmhouses with their traditional thatched roofs. Very hygge, as they say. Though at that point I would have traded all the atmospheric lighting in Scandinavia for a functioning sat nav. Ours had developed what I can only describe as a personality crisis somewhere near Aarhus and started directing us through what appeared to be someone's private gravel driveway. Twice.

The mishap, though. Oh, the mishap. We had stopped at a supermarket in Ebeltoft itself to stock up on provisions, as one does for self-catering. I was feeling terribly organised, smug even, with my Danish bacon and my mysterious brown cheese and what I thought was a large bottle of squash. The cottage was only a few minutes further along the coast, part of that cluster of holiday homes at Ebeltoft Strand. We found it easily enough, a proper little wooden place with a decked area and views across the water that made me forget, momentarily, about the car full of complaining dependents.

The key was in the lockbox, exactly where the instructions said. The children were already exploring the bunk beds with the intensity of astronauts discovering new terrain. I unpacked my triumphant supermarket haul and reached for the squash to make everyone a celebratory drink. Poured it into glasses. Added water. Took a large, refreshing gulp.

It was not squash. It was some kind of concentrated cleaning fluid for kitchens, packaged in a way that I maintain to this day was deliberately misleading. The label was entirely in Danish, which I will not pretend I can read beyond tak and hej. My face must have been a picture because my partner took one look and started laughing, actually laughing, while I was mid-spit-take into the sink.

There is a particular humiliation to nearly poisoning your entire family through misplaced beverage confidence. I stood there, rinsing my mouth, watching the sunset over Ebeltoft Bay, thinking about how I had fancied myself quite the seasoned traveller. The children, mercifully, had not touched theirs. My partner was still chuckling, reading the back of the bottle with the translation app, confirming that yes, this was indeed for removing limescale and not for human consumption.

We walked down to the little beach area afterwards, me still slightly shaken, the kids collecting smooth stones and pointing at the ferries passing between Ebeltoft and Sjaellands Odde across the water. The air smelled of salt and pine. Someone was grilling on a neighbouring deck, that distinctive charcoal smoke drifting over. My partner squeezed my hand in what I chose to interpret as sympathy rather than continued amusement at my expense.

That first evening set the tone, really. The cottage was comfortable in that straightforward Scandinavian way, nothing fussy, everything practical. We cooked a simple dinner with the bacon, which was at least unmistakably bacon. Sat on the deck with proper drinks, watching the light fade. The children fell asleep in their bunk beds without protest, worn out by sea air and novelty.

I kept that cleaning fluid bottle for the rest of the holiday as a sort of talisman, a reminder not to get too pleased with myself. Every time I looked at it, there was the lesson: slow down, read the label, accept that you are slightly ridiculous and that is fine. The Danish coast does not care about your competence. It just keeps being beautiful, patient, indifferent to your small domestic disasters.

By morning I had already forgiven myself, mostly. We had coffee on the deck, planned nothing more ambitious than a wander into Ebeltoft's cobbled harbour area later, perhaps the glass museum if the children could be bribed. The water was calm, a few early swimmers already down at the strand. Someone was walking a dog along the shore path. Simple pleasures, cottage chaos, the gentle rhythm of doing very little very slowly.

I poured myself another drink, checked it carefully first, and settled in to watch the day begin.