I have never been so relieved to see a lighthouse in my life. After six hours of driving from Copenhagen, two wrong turns involving what I am fairly certain was the same confused cow, and a spectacular argument with a sat nav that insisted Bagenkop was "in the sea, recalculating," I finally spotted the white tower gleaming above the harbour. I may have cheered aloud. I was alone in the car. There is no dignity in solo travel.

The cottage itself sat tucked behind a low stone wall, all red roof and white clapboard, looking like something a child might draw if you asked them to sketch a Danish holiday home. I tumbled out of the car, stretched legs that had forgotten how to bend, and promptly walked straight into a spider web that had been strung across the front path with malicious intent. The spider, I noted with grim satisfaction, was nowhere to be seen. Probably off laughing with the sat nav.

I had arrived with grand plans. The forecast had promised crisp autumn sunshine, perfect walking weather, the sort of conditions that make you believe you will become the sort of person who owns proper hiking boots and uses words like "scree" in casual conversation. I had printed maps. I had packed a compass I did not know how to use. I was ready to conquer the Langeland coast path in the manner of a minor Viking, albeit one who had packed three types of biscuit and emergency tea bags.

Morning one dawned grey and still, which I optimistically interpreted as "atmospheric." I set off toward the harbour, past boats dozing at their moorings, and followed a track that climbed gently above the town. The path curved along low cliffs, through scrubby grassland where sheep regarded me with the blank hostility of creatures who have seen many enthusiastic tourists come and go. The wind picked up. I told myself this was bracing. Bracing is good. Bracing builds character and justifies hot chocolate.

By afternoon the bracing had escalated to something meteorologists probably have a technical term for, but which I would describe as "trying to walk inside a washing machine." The sky lowered itself onto the horizon like a bad mood. I turned back, slightly damp in the way that suggests you will discover new wet patches for hours, and retreated to the cottage where I spent the evening making soup and pretending I had intended a short walk all along.

Day two I woke to horizontal rain. Not falling rain. Rain that had evidently decided gravity was optional and was travelling sideways with purpose. I stood at the window with my tea and watched it attack the garden furniture. My printed maps sat on the table, slowly curling at the edges from the humidity of my disappointment. I had planned to walk south toward the nature reserve, to spot birds and feel accomplished. Instead I paced the cottage, did an absurd number of press-ups out of sheer boredom, and developed an intense relationship with a jigsaw puzzle featuring a lighthouse that looked nothing like the real one.

The weather broke that evening. I say broke; what I mean is it shifted from aggressive to merely petulant. I pulled on every layer I owned and struck out toward the coast in the last of the light. The path was slick, the air still thick with the threat of more rain, but the sea had turned that particular silver-green that makes you forgive Denmark everything. I walked until my torch became necessary, stumbling slightly, singing to myself in a way that would have embarrassed me deeply if anyone had heard. No one did. The sheep had gone to bed.

By my final morning I had abandoned the maps entirely. I walked without destination, letting the paths choose, wandering through birch woods where the leaves were turning, down to shingle beaches where I collected stones I would later wonder why I had packed. The sun actually appeared, briefly, like a celebrity making a reluctant cameo. I stood on a low headland and watched it gild the water, thinking about how my planned conquest had become something quieter, more meandering, more honest.

I never did master the compass. The emergency tea bags proved the wisest packing decision I made. And I learned that the best walks are sometimes the ones the weather interrupts, the ones that send you home early to soup and jigsaws, the ones that remind you holidays are not about conquering landscapes but about letting yourself be moved by them, sideways rain and all.