I have never been brilliant at following sat nav instructions, and my trip to Egsmark Strand proved it in spectacular fashion. There we were, three hours into our drive from Esbjerg, convinced we were nearly there, when the cheerful voice announced we had arrived. I looked out at a muddy field containing one confused cow and absolutely no holiday cottage. Turns out I had typed "Egsmark" without the "Strand" bit and had been cheerfully directed to a farm somewhere near Grenaa. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The children, meanwhile, had begun a competitive whining contest in the back that I was destined to lose.

Forty minutes of tense navigation later, we finally found the proper turning. The road narrowed, trees closed in, and suddenly there it was: a proper Danish summer house, all wooden cladding and slightly wonky decking, sitting among pines with the faintest whisper of sea air reaching us on the breeze. I felt like an explorer who had discovered something, which is ridiculous given that thousands of people clearly holiday here every year, but let me have my moment.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for an embarrassingly long time while a neighbour watched from his garden with the patient amusement of someone who has seen this performance many times before. When the door finally opened, we were hit by that particular smell of pine and cleaning products and slightly damp holiday home that I find weirdly comforting. The children shot past me, claiming bedrooms with the territorial urgency of seagulls spotting a dropped chip. My wife headed straight for the kitchen to assess the coffee situation. I stood in the hallway, still holding the key, feeling that lovely shift that happens when a journey ends and a holiday properly begins.

I will be honest, the place was not pristine. There was a cobweb in the corner of the bathroom that had clearly been there long enough to qualify for tenancy rights. The washing machine made a noise like a distressed seal when we tried it. One of the deck chairs had developed a sag that threatened to swallow anyone incautious enough to sit down. But these imperfections felt like character rather than problems, evidence of a place that had been properly lived in by families before us and would be again after.

The real revelation came when I finally walked down to the beach, which took all of seven minutes through a little wooded path. Egsmark Strand itself is not trying to impress anyone. No promenade, no ice cream kiosk, no organised entertainment. Just a curve of sand and shingle, the Kattegat stretching out grey-green and calm, a few locals walking dogs with the unhurried pace of people who know they live somewhere rather good. I stood there with my shoes in my hand, my feet getting cold in the September water, and felt something loosen in my chest that I had not realised was tight.

That evening we cooked badly, argued about board game rules, and discovered that the cottage's DVD collection contained seventeen copies of various films nobody wanted to watch. It was perfect. We were not doing the holiday, not performing relaxation for social media or ticking off experiences. We were just there, slightly chaotic and completely ordinary, in a wooden house near a quiet Danish beach, and that was more than enough.