I had been dreaming about our Marielyst holiday home for weeks, so naturally I spent the entire ferry crossing from Rostock to Gedser fretting about whether I'd remembered to pack the travel adapter. Spoiler: I had not. This realisation hit me precisely as we pulled into Falster, which is roughly the most inconvenient moment to discover you have no way of charging your phone, your partner's phone, or the portable speaker you had promised would provide the "ambient soundtrack" to our week away.

The drive from Gedser to Marielyst took about twenty minutes, which I spent in dignified silence, occasionally muttering "I could have sworn" while my other half navigated with the calm patience of someone who had fully expected this outcome. The late October light was already fading, that particular Danish autumn gloom where the sky seems to lower itself personally to meet you. The beech trees along the road had turned the most extraordinary copper colour, and the fields between them looked almost theatrically golden in the last of the afternoon sun.

We found our holiday home down one of the sandy lanes that characterise Marielyst, those peculiar roads where the tarmac seems almost apologetic for existing among the pine trees and holiday cottages. The area is known as the "Danish Riviera," which sounds rather grand until you realise it refers to a stretch of Baltic coastline where the brave swim in July and the sensible admire the view from behind thermally efficient windows. In late October, the Riviera aspect was decidedly theoretical.

The cottage itself was a classic Danish sommerhus, all wooden cladding and sensible angles, with a terrace that would undoubtedly be magnificent in summer and was currently being colonised by fallen pine needles. The key was in the lockbox exactly where promised, which felt almost suspiciously efficient after my adapter debacle. Stepping inside, the first thing that struck me was the smell of wood and closed-up rooms, that particular scent of holiday homes everywhere that have been waiting for occupants since the summer crowds departed.

My partner immediately began investigating the heating system with the enthusiasm of someone who had read the online description promising "cosy atmosphere." I busied myself with the important task of locating the kettle and pretending I had not noticed the temperature dropping outside. The large windows, which I imagine flood the place with light in June, now framed a view of gathering darkness and the occasional swaying pine branch. It was not what the brochure would call "inviting," yet there was something genuinely compelling about it.

We discovered the fireplace that evening, after a trip to the supermarket in Væggerløse where I bought an adapter along with our provisions. The shop was doing brisk trade in candles and thick socks, which rather summed up the seasonal mood. Back at the cottage, we managed to get a fire going with the provided wood, though not without some dramatic smoke incidents that required opening windows and letting in the cold, defeating several purposes simultaneously.

Sitting there with the fire finally behaving itself, wrapped in blankets because we had not yet mastered the underfloor heating controls, I found myself unexpectedly content. The autumn darkness outside felt less like something to endure and more like the whole point. This was not the Marielyst of summer barbecues and beach days, and that was precisely what made it interesting. The season had stripped the place down to its essentials: wood, warmth, and the particular quiet that comes when most holidaymakers have gone home.

I still maintain the adapter situation was an understandable oversight.