We had been on the road for what felt like six hours but was probably closer to four when I realised, with the sort of cold dread that only a parent on holiday can truly know, that I had packed everyone's swimming costumes except my own. Not at the bottom of the case. Not in the other bag. Just... not there. My wife gave me that look, the one that says she loves me but also that she has mentally filed this under "reasons I do the packing next time." The kids, mercifully, were too busy arguing over who had more room in the back seat to notice my shame.

The journey to Falster is actually rather pleasant once you escape the Copenhagen traffic. You cross from Zealand onto the island proper, and something about the landscape shifts. The roads get quieter, the fields open out, and you start to feel like you are properly getting away from it all. We were heading for Marielyst, which sits on the southeast coast, and I had been banging on about fresh air and family time for weeks. The mishap with the trunks was not an auspicious start.

We found the cottage easily enough, tucked among similar wooden places in a little holiday park. The key was where they said it would be, which felt like a small victory after my packing performance. I unlocked the door and immediately stepped straight onto a loose floorboard that creaked like something from a horror film. The kids thought this was hilarious and spent the next ten minutes stomping on it deliberately while my wife and I stood in the small hallway, taking in our home for the week.

First impressions of these Danish summer places always get me. They are so terribly sensible and yet somehow cosy. The kitchen had everything you could need and nothing that felt precious. Wooden table, decent cooker, a fridge that hummed contentedly in the corner. The living area had that particular smell of pine and slightly damp upholstery that I associate with childhood holidays in the UK, though somehow cleaner. The Danes do not really do clutter. There were a few ornaments, a couple of prints of local scenes, and that was about it. I found it rather calming, though my wife noted that there was nowhere to hide from each other if we fell out.

The children had already claimed bedrooms before we had even brought the bags in. Our daughter bagged the room with the bunk beds, naturally, while our son took the other twin room because it had a slightly better view of the trees outside. We were left with the main bedroom, which faced the road. I pretended this was fine and that I did not mind, though I had secretly fancied waking up to greenery rather than the occasional cyclist.

I made tea using the kettle provided, which is my ritual whenever we arrive somewhere new. There is something about that first cuppa in an unfamiliar kitchen that tells you whether you are going to settle in or not. The milk was still cold from the cool bag, the mugs were a decent size, and I stood there watching the kids already spreading their chaos across the living room floor with board games they had insisted on bringing and would probably never finish.

My wife appeared at my elbow with her own tea and whispered that she had spotted a supermarket not far back down the road. I knew what she meant. I would be buying a new swimming costume tomorrow, and I would be hearing about the forgotten one for the rest of the holiday, and probably beyond. I nodded, sipped my tea, and listened to the floorboard creaking under my daughter's enthusiastic feet somewhere above us.

Outside, the evening was doing that long, slow fade that Danish summer evenings do, where it feels like dusk lasts for hours. I could hear birds in the trees and the distant sound of someone else arriving, their car doors slamming, their voices carrying that same slightly stressed excitement we had brought with us. The air coming through the open window smelled of pine and something else, something coastal and fresh that made me think of the beach, which was apparently only a short walk away.

I had forgotten my swimming costume, stepped on a noisy floorboard, and already surrendered the best bedroom to my children. But standing there in that simple, well-kept kitchen, listening to my family being thoroughly themselves in the next room, I felt that particular loosening that holidays bring. The journey was done. The bags could wait. For the next week, this slightly creaky, pleasingly plain little cottage was ours, and I was suddenly very glad to be exactly where I was, even if I would be buying emergency swimwear in the morning.