I should have known the holiday was going to be characterful when I put the postcode into my sat nav and it directed me to a field of very unimpressed cows somewhere near Nykobing Falster. Turns out there is a subtle but crucial difference between Marielyst Strand and simply "Marielyst" followed by hopeful guesswork. Forty minutes of cheerful rural touring later, I finally spotted the proper turn-off and the cluster of traditional Danish summer houses that make up the Marielyst Strand area.

The property itself was one of those classic Scandinavian wooden places, all clean lines and sensible decking, with that particular smell of pine and salt that hits you the moment you push open the door. I was still laughing at my own navigational incompetence when I realised I had absolutely no idea how to work the key safe. This drew the immediate attention of Jens, the neighbour from the adjacent cottage, who appeared over the fence with the quiet inevitability of someone who has spent decades watching British tourists struggle with basic mechanics.

"You are pressing the wrong button," he said, not unkindly, before proceeding to explain the entire history of the key safe model in question, its manufacturer in Aarhus, and the particular weather event of 2017 that had necessitated its installation. Jens was seventy-ish, built like a retired fisherman, and possessed that wonderful Danish directness that somehow never tips into rudeness. Within ten minutes I knew about his late wife's excellent smorrebrod, his sceptical views on Swedish football, and his precise opinion on where I should purchase my breakfast rye bread. He did not ask many questions about me, which I found rather refreshing.

The next morning I took his advice and cycled to the little cluster of shops near the beach, where I encountered Birgit behind the counter of what I can only describe as a bakery-cum-general-store-cum-social-hub. She looked at my attempt to order in phrasebook Danish with the patient amusement of someone who has heard "en kaffe, tak" mangled seventeen thousand different ways.

"You are staying at the Strand houses," she announced, rather than asked. "Jens has already telephoned me." I am still uncertain whether this constituted friendly local networking or some form of benign surveillance, but Birgit immediately produced the correct dark rye and proceeded to explain why the tourist shop bread was "for Germans and other people who do not understand grain." Her husband Per emerged from the back, introduced himself by shaking my hand for approximately thirty seconds, and insisted on drawing me a map of the best cycling route to the harbour, despite my protestations that I possessed a phone. "The phone," he said darkly, "will send you to the cows again."

He was not wrong about the route though. The harbour itself introduced me to Knud, a retired ship's engineer who now seemed to exist primarily on the bench outside the small marina, feeding scraps to a one-eyed cat he referred to as his "harbour master." Knud spoke English with the particular cadence of someone who learned it primarily from American films and British tourists, resulting in sentences like "that is totally bloody awesome, mate, no?" He told me about the decline of proper fishing, the rise of German second-homers, and the time someone had attempted to sail a canal boat to Copenhagen via the Baltic. "This is not possible," he said, with immense satisfaction. "I told him. He did not listen. The boat is still in Poland, I think."

What struck me about all of them was this comfortable self-assurance, this complete lack of performance. They were not being charming for tourism's sake; they were simply passing time in the way that suited them, and if you happened to be there, well, you might as well be included. I found myself thinking about my own tendency to fill silences, to over-explain, to somehow audition for people's attention. The Danes I met at Marielyst Strand did not audition for anyone.

By my third evening, Jens had progressed to leaving me fresh garden strawberries on the decking without knocking, and Birgit had started refusing my money for morning pastries, writing mysterious IOUs in a ledger I suspect she had no intention of ever presenting. Knud had added me to his roster of bench companions, though he still referred to me as "the English with the cows" whenever introducing me to other harbour regulars.

I left with a bag of Per's homemade pickled herring, a handwritten note from Birgit about a cousin in Arhus I should apparently visit, and Jens's firm instruction to return in autumn when the mushroom foraging began. I am genuinely considering it. There is something rather wonderful about a place where your primary distinguishing feature is a sat nav mishap, and where people treat that as sufficient introduction to feed you, advise you, and gently take the mickey for the duration of your stay.