I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I missed the turning for Hasmark by a good three miles. There I was, smugly following what I thought was the coastal road through northern Funen, only to find myself pulling into a farmyard somewhere near Otterup while a very confused Labrador stared at me through my windscreen. Turns out I'd been following a tractor for twenty minutes assuming it was just slow Danish traffic. It was not. It was going home.

By the time I actually reached the Hasmark holiday home, I'd already had what felt like a proper adventure. The place sits tucked among low dunes and windswept birch trees, the sort of location that makes you immediately forgive the getting-lost bit. My first impression was the smell, actually - that particular North Sea combination of salt and pine and something faintly marshy that hits you before anything visual registers. I stood there with my suitcase half-open from where I'd rummaged for the key code, just breathing it in like a complete prat.

The cottage itself had that weathered Scandinavian look, all soft grey wood and windows that seemed deliberately positioned to catch particular slants of light. I dumped my bags and did what any sensible person would do - went for a wander without checking a map, which is how I found the first of several accidental discoveries. A narrow path behind the property, barely more than a rabbit track, led me through knee-high meadow grass towards what I assumed was the beach. It wasn't. It was a small freshwater pond, completely hidden from the main trail, where someone had long ago placed a single wooden bench facing the water. No plaque, no explanation, just a perfect spot for sitting with your thoughts. I stayed there until the midges found me.

The real gem came the next morning. Determined to reach the actual coast this time, I set off in what I confidently believed was the right direction. Twenty minutes later I was thoroughly lost in a patch of woodland that didn't appear on any map I'd glanced at. Panic gave way to curiosity, and curiosity led me to stumble upon a clearing where an elderly Danish chap was tending a tiny apple orchard. He spoke no English, I speak barely any Danish, yet through pointing and enthusiastic nodding he showed me his secret - a narrow gap in the trees that opened onto a cove I'd never have found otherwise. The beach was barely fifty metres of sand between rocky outcrops, completely empty, with water so clear I could see my own feet wobbling on the stones beneath.

I spent three hours there. Saw two other people the entire time, both locals walking dogs who nodded as if this was perfectly ordinary, not some miraculous hidden paradise.

That became the pattern of the week. The planned trips to nearby towns happened, sure, but they never matched the accidental moments. The bakery in Hasmark village that I only found because I took a wrong turn looking for milk. The tiny harbour where someone was repairing a wooden boat and let me watch without conversation. The evening I followed a path that simply ended at a field of barley, gold in the lowering sun, with nothing to do but turn around and walk back feeling oddly content.

I think what stuck with me most was realising how little I normally allow for getting lost. Every journey mapped, every destination predetermined. There's something particular about the Danish landscape, its modest scale and quietness, that rewards the wandering approach. You can't get truly stranded on Funen. You can only find places you weren't looking for.

On my final morning, I tried to find that hidden cove again. Failed completely, despite what felt like sensible navigation. The orchard man wasn't about either. I stood in the wrong clearing for ten minutes, laughing at myself, before giving up and heading back.

Some places, I suppose, are meant to stay accidental.