I have never been brilliant with ferries, and my arrival in East Jutland proved this beyond all doubt. We had sailed from Harwich to Esbjerg overnight, which sounds civilised enough until you factor in my decision to pack the car at half past three in the morning after approximately four hours of sleep. By the time we reached St. Sjørup, somewhere north of Aarhus, I was operating on pure stubbornness and a lukewarm cup of ferry coffee that had started to taste of regret.

The mishap, because there is always a mishap, came within minutes of finding the place. St. Sjørup itself is a proper Danish holiday home, all wood panelling and sensible Scandinavian design, tucked among trees with a view of the Kattegat that makes you forget you are essentially at sea level in a country famous for being flat. I was so busy congratulating myself on navigating Danish country lanes without causing an international incident that I completely failed to notice the low wooden beam across the carport entrance. The roof box, which I had insisted we needed for a four-night stay, made contact with a sound like a coconut being hit with a cricket bat. My partner said nothing. This was worse than saying something.

We stood there in that particular silence, examining the scratch while Danish birds carried on with their business, utterly unbothered by my incompetence. I had planned to sweep into our holiday like someone from one of those property programmes, all effortless linen and local cheese. Instead I was crouched by a Volvo, running my finger along a dent and wondering if roof box damage counted as a travel insurance situation.

The key collection, at least, went smoothly. The house had that particular smell of somewhere properly lived-in during summer months, a mixture of wood polish and salt air and the faint promise that someone else has already solved the basic problems. I immediately opened every wrong cupboard looking for mugs, discovered the washing machine where I expected the fridge to be, and managed to set off some sort of alarm clock function on the oven that beeped with increasing aggression until I resorted to pressing every button in a panic.

But here is the thing about first impressions, the gentle reflection part I promised myself I would include. Standing on the decking with a proper cup of tea finally in hand, watching the light do that particular pale northern thing it does across Danish water, I felt the specific relief of having arrived somewhere that does not require you to be impressive. The roof box was scratched. I was tired and slightly broken by ferry travel. The oven and I had established a difficult relationship already. None of this mattered particularly.

East Jutland does not perform for you, which is precisely its charm. The local area around St. Sjørup offers proper coastal walking, the sort where you might see another person every twenty minutes if it is busy. The nearest village shop sells the necessities without making a performance of it. You are not in Copenhagen being stylish; you are somewhere that understands the value of a good bench and a view of water.

That first evening, we walked down to the shore before dinner, still slightly dazed from travel. The beach was not sandy in the postcard sense but proper Danish coastal, all stones and quiet industry, with the sound of water moving over rock that I always forget I have missed until I hear it again. I thought about the roof box, briefly, then decided that some things are simply the cost of getting somewhere worth being.

We cooked a terrible first meal because we had bought the wrong sort of cream for the sauce, and because Danish supermarkets still confuse me despite repeated attempts at bilingual label reading. It did not matter. The house had settled around us, creaking in the way wooden houses do, and outside the light was fading in that slow northern way that makes evening feel generous rather than rushed.

I have learned, slowly and with repeated roof box incidents, that the beginning of a holiday is rarely graceful. The arrival contains all the chaos of transition, the unpacking of both luggage and the particular person you become when navigating foreign road signs. St. Sjørup met this chaos with its calm, steady presence, and I was grateful for it before I even properly understood why.