We set off for Ejsingholm Strand at half past six in the morning, which in hindsight was optimistic with two children under ten and a boot packed so full it threatened to spring open like a cartoon suitcase. My partner had insisted we could do the drive from Aalborg in under an hour, and I had insisted we stop for pastries, so naturally we achieved neither. The pastries were forgotten on the kitchen counter, and the hour stretched to nearly two after I confidently directed us down a farm track that Google Maps swore was a shortcut. It was not. We emerged from a cloud of dust behind a tractor whose driver waved at us with the weary sympathy of someone who had seen this exact mistake a hundred times before.

The real comedy began when we finally reached the cottage. I had the key code ready, the children were threatening mutiny, and I stepped out of the car straight into what I can only describe as a puddle with ambitions. My left trainer filled with icy water before I had even reached the door. There is something uniquely humbling about squelching through your own holiday arrival, leaving damp footprints on a wooden floor you have yet to properly admire. My partner laughed for a solid minute while I stood in the hallway, dripping and defiant, already wondering if I could dry the thing on a radiator without it shrinking to a child's size three.

But here is the thing about Ejsingholm Strand: it rather refuses to let you stay flustered. The cottage had that particular Scandinavian brightness to it, all pale wood and windows that seemed to pull the fjord right into the room. I abandoned my sodden shoe by the door and hobbled about in one sock, opening cupboards and exclaiming at the discovery of proper coffee filters, which felt like an almost spiritual blessing after our farm track detour. The children had already vanished to investigate the bunk beds, and from upstairs came the unmistakable thud of someone jumping on a mattress with more enthusiasm than sense.

I found my way to the little terrace with my remaining dry foot, and there was the Limfjord, flat and silver in the morning light, with barely a ripple to disturb it. A heron stood on the shore like a grumpy pensioner waiting for a bus. Somewhere across the water, a dog barked with the lazy irregularity of a creature with nowhere particular to be. I stood there in my ridiculous single sock and felt something in my shoulders release that I had not realised I was carrying.

The mishaps continued, of course. We discovered the barbecue had no gas, that I had packed three left-handed gloves, and that our youngest was terrified of the outdoor shower in a way that suggested we had raised a child fundamentally opposed to fresh air. But there was a rhythm to it all that felt forgiving. We walked the shingle beach at low tide, collecting stones that the children insisted were precious and that I knew would be abandoned by the car within forty-eight hours. We cycled to the village shop for milk and came back with ice creams, because that is the mathematics of family holidays. One evening I attempted to cook mackerel I had bought from a man in a shed, and managed only to set off the smoke alarm and create something the dog would not touch.

What I keep returning to, though, is that first morning. The wet shoe drying by the door like a small defeated creature. The heron on the shore. The particular quality of light that made everything feel provisional and precious, as if the whole trip might dissolve if you looked at it too directly. I think sometimes we arrive at places expecting them to fix us, to deliver the holiday we have scripted in our heads, and instead they offer something smaller and more honest. A damp foot. A good view. Children laughing upstairs at nothing in particular.

We left with sand in the car, sunburn in peculiar patterns, and a heron-shaped ornament from a nearby craft shop that I did not need and absolutely bought. My trainer never fully recovered, and sits in the cupboard now as a sort of memorial to imperfection. I find I rather like it there.