I have never been so relieved to see a wooden shed with a slightly crooked porch light as I was when we finally rocked up at our Rindby cottage in Fanø. The journey had been one of those classic family holiday openers where everything goes a bit sideways. We had taken the train from Copenhagen to Esbjerg, which was actually lovely, then the ferry across to Fanø, which the children declared "basically a cruise." Then came the mishap. In my infinite wisdom, I had decided we would walk from the ferry port in Nordby to Rindby with our bags. It is only about four kilometres, I told my wife. A nice stretch of the legs after sitting down all day. What I had failed to account for was the Danish wind, which I am convinced exists on a personal mission to humiliate British tourists. Within minutes my supposedly weatherproof jacket was doing an excellent impression of a parachute, my daughter's hat had vanished into a marsh, and our wheelie suitcase had developed a mind of its own and made a break for the dunes. By the time we arrived at the cottage, I looked like I had been dragged through a car wash backwards and my son was asking if this counted as "survival training."

The cottage itself, though, immediately made up for everything. It was one of those proper Danish summer houses, all pale wood and big windows, with a thatched roof that made it look like something from a storybook. The garden was wild in that deliberate Scandinavian way, with grasses and low shrubs that somehow looked intentional rather than neglected. My wife went straight for the outdoor furniture, which was arranged around a fire pit, and I could see her mentally scheduling evening drinks while the children ran off to investigate a rope swing that looked like it had been there since the seventies. The swing held, which felt like a small victory.

Inside, the place had that brilliant Danish knack of being both stylish and completely unpretentious. Clean lines, lots of light wood, a kitchen that actually had decent knives for once in a holiday rental. The children immediately claimed the loft bedroom, which involved a ladder they treated like a climbing wall, while my wife and I took the ground floor room with doors that opened straight onto the deck. I stood there for a moment, still slightly windswept, watching the late afternoon light come through the trees, and had one of those rare moments of thinking, actually, I have done something right here. Then my son shouted that he had got his foot stuck in the ladder and the moment passed, but still.

The first evening was pure cottage chaos in the best possible way. We attempted a barbecue using the little grill in the garden, which involved me making a complete hash of lighting the charcoal while the children ran around collecting sticks they insisted were "essential for the fire." The wind that had tormented us earlier decided to help by blowing smoke directly into my face no matter where I stood. We ate slightly burnt sausages and potato salad from the little supermarket in Rindby village, sitting on that outdoor furniture with blankets because Danish summer evenings have a chill that catches you out. My daughter dropped her sausage in the sand and declared it "seasoned now." Nobody argued.

What struck me most about that first day was how quickly the rhythm of the place took over. No television on, no plans beyond walking to the beach tomorrow, which was apparently only a few minutes through the dunes. The children were filthy and happy. My wife was reading an actual paperback she had found on the shelf. I was nursing a cup of tea and feeling smug about the fire I had eventually managed, even if it had involved an embarrassing amount of firelighter. The cottage had that rare quality of feeling lived-in without feeling like you were living in someone else's life. Personal touches everywhere, little ceramic bowls and faded postcards, but nothing precious enough that you worried about the children breaking it.

I went to bed that night with sand already in the sheets, which I chose to view as a badge of honour, and the sound of real silence outside, broken only by what I told myself was definitely a friendly Danish owl and not something that would feature in a Scandi noir drama. We had arrived. We were windswept, slightly singed, and my daughter's hat was probably halfway to Germany by now. But we were here, in our funny little thatched house by the North Sea, and I already knew the next few days would involve nothing more complicated than beaches, board games, and probably me making a fool of myself with Danish pronunciation in the village shop. Perfect, basically.