I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I tried to unlock the wrong beach hut.

We'd been driving for what felt like forever, though in reality it was only a few hours from the ferry at Esbjerg. My partner was navigating, which is always a gamble, and I'd been happily daydreaming about Danish pastries when she suddenly announced we were "definitely close." Reader, we were not close. We were in a car park belonging to a completely different stretch of coast, and I was already trying the key code on a charming little hut that, it turns out, belonged to a very confused German family who were watching from their window with the kind of fascination usually reserved for street performers.

After what I can only describe as a theatrical mime of apology through their window, we eventually found Hasmark Strand proper. And honestly? Getting lost turned out to be the best thing we could have done.

The proper cottage sat tucked among low dunes with that particular Scandinavian modesty, all weathered wood and big windows that seemed to shrug and say, "oh, this old thing?" But it was the surroundings that really got me. We dumped our bags with the reckless abandon of people who'd spent too long in a Vauxhall and went wandering before we'd even made tea.

That's when we found the first of our accidental discoveries. We'd meant to follow the obvious path down to the main beach, but I got distracted by a gap in some sea buckthorn bushes and decided it "definitely went somewhere." It went somewhere, alright. We emerged onto a tiny cove of smooth stones, sheltered by a curve of low cliff, where someone had built a miniature stone village. We're talking dozens of little houses, a harbour wall, even what looked like a church with a seaweed steeple. No sign, no explanation, just this secret civilisation waiting for the tide. We spent an hour adding our own contribution, a rather wobbly lighthouse that I'm sure has already fallen, and I felt that particular joy of childhood that adults so rarely permit themselves.

The next morning, determined to find the "real" Hasmark Strand, we promptly got lost again. This time in the woods behind the cottage, where paths seem to multiply like rabbits. We were looking for the marked trail to the local fishing lake and instead found ourselves in a clearing where an elderly Dane was tending what could only be described as a private museum of agricultural machinery. He didn't speak English, we don't speak Danish, but through gestures and shared laughter he showed us his collection of hand ploughs, each one polished like a trophy. He gave us apples from his orchard. We gave him a packet of custard creams we'd brought from home. It was the most British-Danish exchange imaginable, and I still think about him when I eat an apple.

By day three we'd stopped trying to follow any plan at all. We took wrong turns deliberately. We followed deer tracks through birch woods and found a hollow where someone had hung dozens of painted stones from branches, each one catching the light like a strange fruit. We stumbled into a village that doesn't appear to have a name, or at least not one we could pronounce, where a bakery was selling the most extraordinary cardamom buns still warm from the oven. The woman running it seemed genuinely surprised to see us, which suggested tourists don't wander in often.

What struck me most was how comfortable I became with not knowing where I was going. At home I'm the person who plans routes, checks reviews, knows exactly what to expect. Here, every wrong turn brought something I couldn't have planned for. A beach where the sand sang underfoot. A ruined farmstead being slowly claimed by wild roses. A bench placed with such perfect consideration for watching the sunset that someone must have carried the materials for miles.

I think that's the real gift of places like Hasmark Strand. They're not trying to impress you with grand gestures. They're just quietly being themselves, and if you're willing to get a bit lost, they let you in on secrets that no guidebook could offer.

Though I do still feel guilty about that German family's beach hut. Sorry, whoever you are. I hope the rest of your holiday was less eventful than our arrival.