I have never been so relieved to see a wooden shed in my life.

The drive from Copenhagen had taken the best part of three hours, which in itself was not the problem. The problem was that I had spent the final forty minutes absolutely certain I was being followed by the same silver Volvo. Every roundabout, every coastal lane, there it was. My inner thriller writer went into overdrive. Danish mafia? An elaborate identity theft ring operating out of rural Funen? It was only when we both pulled into the same farm shop that I realised it was a local chap buying pickled herring, and I had been driving at the pace of a pensioner on a Sunday outing. He was not following me. He was simply trying to get home before his ice cream melted. I bought some rhubarb jam out of sheer embarrassment and drove the last stretch in a state of crimson-faced humility.

Lohals sits on the northern tip of Langeland, and the cottage I had booked was one of those traditional Danish summer places with weathered timber and a roof that seems to sag contentedly into the landscape. My first impression, stepping out of the car, was of absolute stillness. Not the ominous kind. The restorative kind. Just wind in the grass and the distant sound of a dog deciding whether to bother barking.

The garden was what got me. It was not manicured. It was not designed. It was simply allowed to be, which I found rather radical. Wildflowers had colonised the edges. A weathered bench faced south, positioned with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where the afternoon sun would linger longest. I sat on it immediately, still wearing my coat, still holding my car keys, and felt something in my shoulders give way. I suspect it was the last remaining shred of my London self.

The cottage itself smelled of pine and old books. The windows were small and deep-set, so the light came in sideways, illuminating dust motes with theatrical patience. I put my bag down in the bedroom and promptly forgot about unpacking. Instead I made a cup of tea with the sort of kettle that takes its time, and stood in the kitchen doorway watching a blackbird work through the flowerbed with the focused intensity of someone who genuinely enjoys their job.

I had brought three books, which now seems like unnecessary ambition. I read perhaps six pages of the first one that afternoon, not because it was dull but because I kept looking up. At the sky, which did a tremendous amount of weather for one afternoon. At the neighbour's cat, who inspected my garden with bureaucratic thoroughness before deciding I was not worth his continued attention. At my own hands wrapped around a mug that was slightly too large, which is exactly how mugs should be.

There is a peculiar guilt to doing very little, I have found. The first day I kept catching myself thinking I ought to be walking somewhere, seeing something, ticking some cultural box. But Lohals does not really encourage this. The beach is shingle and quiet. The village has a harbour where people mend things rather than display things. The shop sells useful items in a nonchalant fashion. Everything conspires to slow your pulse until it matches the rhythm of the place.

By evening I had established a position on that bench from which I did not intend to move for any reason short of fire. I watched the light change over the fields, drank a beer that tasted better than any beer had a right to, and felt the particular pleasure of being exactly where I was with no particular plan for where I would be next. The silver Volvo chap would have been proud of me. Probably.