I have never been so relieved to see a set of wind turbines in my life. There they were, spinning lazily above the flat fields of Falster, and I knew we had finally made it to Marielyst. The three-hour drive from Copenhagen had turned into four and a half thanks to my stubborn refusal to trust the sat nav, a decision that saw us touring what felt like every back lane in southern Zealand. The small mishap? I had packed the cottage keys in the boot, buried beneath a folding chair, a rogue wellington, and enough snacks to survive a Danish winter. Cue twenty minutes of rummaging in a layby while my partner maintained a heroic silence.

We arrived in late November, and the season announced itself immediately. The holiday park was half-asleep, many of the neighbouring cottages shuttered up for the winter, their terraces stripped of summer furniture. The reception was closed, operating on self-check-in only, which suited my mood after the key fiasco. A laminated note taped to the door directed us to our cottage with the kind of straightforward efficiency I have come to expect from Denmark. No fuss, no flourish, just "your home is the third on the left."

The cottage itself sat among bare birch trees, their branches scratching at a pale grey sky. In summer, I imagined, the place would be buzzing with bicycles and barbecues, children tearing between the playground and the indoor pool. Now the playground swings hung still, their chains catching the low afternoon light. The seasonal hush was immediate and total. I found it oddly comforting, though my partner noted that the silence felt almost deliberate, as if the entire resort was holding its breath until spring.

Inside, the heating had been left on low, and the warmth hit us with that particular pleasure of arriving somewhere foreign and finding it prepared for you. The living area was simple, functional, with those slightly too-firm sofas that Scandinavian holiday lets seem to favour. I made straight for the kitchen, needing tea after the drive, and discovered the previous guests had left behind a half-empty jar of pickled herring and a candle shaped like a pine cone. Seasonal decorations, apparently, though not ones I would have chosen.

What struck me most was the light, or rather the lack of it. By half past four the sun had already given up, leaving us in that peculiar Danish winter gloom where the sky seems to press down at the edges of your vision. We abandoned any thought of exploring and instead lit every candle in the place, opened the wine we had brought, and watched the darkness gather beyond the patio doors. The trees became silhouettes, then nothing at all.

The next morning brought a frost so sharp it crunched underfoot on the path to the car. I had planned a walk to the beach, imagining bracing sea air and perhaps a dramatic photograph for social media. The reality was a bitter wind that found every gap in my supposedly waterproof jacket, and a beach so empty it felt almost intrusive to be there. The Baltic stretched grey and unbroken to the horizon. I lasted perhaps ten minutes before retreating, cheeks stinging, to the cottage and the promise of the wood-burning stove.

That stove became the centre of our stay in a way I had not anticipated. In summer, I suspect, the cottage functions merely as somewhere to sleep between outdoor adventures. In November, it became the entire point. We built fires with the enthusiasm of people who rarely do so at home, argued about the correct arrangement of kindling, and felt genuinely accomplished when the thing caught properly. The smell of woodsmoke clung to our clothes and followed us through the rooms.

The local supermarket in Marielyst village remained open, a mercy in the off-season when so much else had closed. We bought rye bread and dense, dark chocolate, ingredients for simple meals eaten early because what else was there to do once darkness fell? The cashier recognised our cottage number when I mentioned it, nodded as if this explained everything. "Quiet now," she said, which was both statement and, I felt, gentle warning.

By our third evening, I had settled into the rhythm of the place. The early darkness stopped feeling oppressive and became instead a kind of permission. Permission to do very little, to read the book I had carried for months, to attempt a jigsaw puzzle abandoned in the cottage's cupboard, to simply sit and watch the fire. My partner observed that I was becoming suspiciously Danish in my acceptance of gloom, which I chose to take as a compliment.

We left on a morning when the frost had not lifted by midday, the car needing several minutes of running before the windscreen cleared. I took one last look at the cottage, at the bare trees and the empty playground, and felt something unexpected. Not the relief of escaping back to city life, but a kind of gratitude for what the season had offered. The summer version of Marielyst would be perfectly pleasant, I am sure. But there was something in that winter stillness, in the honest austerity of it, that suited me more than I had expected. I closed the boot carefully this time, keys safely in my pocket, and we drove back past those same wind turbines, spinning their steady circles against a sky that threatened snow.