I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I packed three pairs of walking boots and somehow managed to leave all of them in the hallway at home. There I was, three hours into the drive up through North Jutland, rummaging through the boot of the car in a layby near Aalborg, wearing one flip-flop and one trainer like some confused tourist who had got dressed in the dark. My other half just sat in the passenger seat, slowly shaking her head, already on her phone searching for the nearest shoe shop in Hjorring. Spoiler alert: there is not a great deal of choice in Hjorring on a Saturday afternoon.

We eventually rolled up to Hostrup Strand in the late afternoon, me now proudly sporting a pair of bargain waterproof trainers that were at least two sizes too big and made a sort of squelching noise with every step. The cottage sat there looking impossibly Danish, all clean lines and pale wood, with enormous windows facing out towards the Limfjord. I squelched up the gravel path feeling rather pleased with myself, until I realised I had been so distracted by my footwear crisis that I had not actually checked the weather forecast once.

The first morning dawned bright and almost insultingly cheerful. Sun streamed through those massive windows and I immediately declared we were doing the proper coastal walk, the one I had read about in a dog-eared guidebook I found at the cottage. We set off towards the shore path with me clomping along in my clown shoes, full of that particular British optimism that comes from seeing blue sky and assuming it will last forever. The Limfjord glittered beside us, all silver and calm, and for about forty minutes I genuinely believed I had cracked this Danish holiday lark.

Then the weather turned.

Not gradually, not politely, but with the sudden theatrical flair of someone who had been waiting for their cue. One moment we were admiring the reeds and the distant silhouette of Mors, the next we were caught in what I can only describe as a vertical sea. The rain came down so hard it actually hurt. My bargain trainers, which had been squelching before, now made a noise like someone emptying a bathtub with every step. We squelched and splashed our way back towards the cottage, passing a Danish cyclist who looked at us with the sort of pity usually reserved for people who have forgotten how umbrellas work.

Dripping on the wooden floorboards, I stood at those enormous windows and watched the weather perform its entire repertoire. Rain, then wind, then a brief flirtation with something that looked almost like sunshine, then more rain. The British in me felt almost at home. There is something deeply comforting about being somewhere new and discovering the weather is just as unreliable as back home.

The next few days became an elaborate dance of optimism and retreat. We would spot a break in the clouds, pull on our coats with the urgency of people who had seen a rare bird, and march out towards the dunes or the little forest path near the strand. Sometimes we made it an hour before the sky remembered its job. Once we got as far as the old fishing spot before a hailstorm sent us scurrying back like startled rabbits. My too-big trainers became a running joke, filling with water, drying by the wood burner, filling with water again.

But here is the thing I keep thinking about, now I am back home with properly fitting shoes and a functioning weather app. There was something rather wonderful about those thwarted walks, about standing in a Danish doorway watching rain sweep across the Limfjord, about laughing with my other half as we squelched home yet again. The holiday became less about the walking and more about the attempting, the setting out, the being rained on and trying anyway.

On our final morning, the sun came out properly. We managed a full two hours along the coast without a single drop, and I suppose it should have felt like victory. But honestly? I think I preferred the chaotic days. There is a particular kind of joy in plans going slightly wrong, in borrowed landscapes and borrowed weather, in clomping about in shoes that do not fit, pretending you meant to get soaked all along.