I should have known the holiday was going to be character-building when I put the sat nav postcode into my phone and it tried to send me into a field of very judgemental-looking sheep. Three hours of driving from Esbjerg, two ferry connections still fresh in my legs, and there I was at a dead end near Fjellerup with a rental car full of snacks and a growing sense that technology had failed me at the crucial moment.

The mishap, though. I need to tell you about the mishap.

I'd stopped at a petrol station outside Aarhus to buy what I thought was a sensible Danish pastry selection for breakfast. What I actually bought, in my sleep-deprived state, was something called "remoulade" in industrial quantities and a jar of pickled herring that I was convinced was jam. The herring incident would come back to haunt me later, but first I had to actually find the house. The proper address, it turned out, was one digit different from what I'd punched in. One digit. The sheep were never going to let me forget it.

When I finally pulled up to the proper Fjellerup property, my first impression was that I'd definitely arrived somewhere. The thatched roof sat there like a hat pulled low over eyebrows, all rustic confidence and Danish practicality. I stepped out of the car and immediately into a puddle that went over my trainer. Classic. The herring, meanwhile, had tipped over in the back seat and the smell was beginning to make itself known. I stood there, one wet foot, surrounded by luggage and poor life choices, and laughed. What else can you do?

The key safe took me longer than I'd care to admit. I kept trying the code upside down, then backwards, then with what I can only describe as aggressive optimism. A neighbour walked past with a dog that looked at me with the same expression as the sheep. Eventually the lock clicked open and I practically fell through the door in triumph.

Inside, the place smelled of wood and salt air and something else I couldn't place. Clean linen, maybe, or just the particular absence of pickled herring. The kitchen was immediately welcoming in that Scandinavian way where everything has a purpose but nothing shouts about it. I put the remoulade in the fridge with the misplaced confidence of someone who still thought it was a pastry filling.

The living room had those big windows that frame the landscape like a painting you're suddenly inside. Fjellerup itself was doing its evening thing outside, all low light and coastal calm. I could hear the sea somewhere, or thought I could, though later I realised it was probably just wind in the trees and my imagination doing the romantic heavy lifting.

I made the mistake of sitting down "just for a minute" on the sofa and woke up forty minutes later with a crick in my neck and the realisation that I hadn't unpacked anything. The herring was still in the car. The sheep were probably still judging me. My trainer was still wet.

But here's the thing about first impressions and small disasters. Standing in that kitchen later, making a cup of tea with a kettle that worked with satisfying Danish efficiency, I felt the particular relief of having arrived somewhere that would let you settle in at your own pace. The chaos of the journey, the postcode, the herring, the puddle - it was all just the price of getting somewhere that felt properly away from everything.

I stepped outside with my tea, wet foot now in a borrowed sock, and watched the last light go somewhere over the Kattegat. The neighbour's dog had forgiven me, or at least stopped making eye contact. Tomorrow I would figure out the beach path, the local shop, what remoulade actually was. Tonight I just stood there, slightly broken, slightly triumphant, properly arrived.