I have never been so relieved to see a wind turbine in my life. After three hours of driving up through Jutland, convinced my satnav had developed a personal vendetta against me, I finally spotted the cluster of white blades turning lazily above Nr. Lyngby. "You have reached your destination," the robotic voice announced, roughly fifteen minutes after I had already stopped to ask a man with a wheelbarrow for directions. He spoke no English. I speak no Danish. We communicated entirely through pointing at my phone and exaggerated shrugging. I think we bonded.

The mishap came when I actually reached the holiday home. Picture the scene: gravel crunching, birds singing, that particular hush of coastal Denmark. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and promptly locked my keys inside. The boot, open. The driver's door, very much not. My phone, sitting cheerfully on the passenger seat. I stood there in the driveway of this charming white wooden house, surrounded by nothing but sand dunes and my own stupidity, wondering how long it would take to starve in North Jutland.

Salvation arrived in the form of Bent, who emerged from the neighbouring property with a cup of coffee and the air of someone who had been expecting entertainment. "First time?" he called out, not bothering to hide his grin. I admitted it was. He laughed, a proper belly laugh, and set down his mug. "I have a wire," he said, as if this explained everything. It did, eventually. Twenty minutes of patient fishing through the window seal, during which Bent regaled me with the complete history of every holidaymaker who had ever done something foolish within his sightline. I was apparently the third key-locker this season, which made me feel simultaneously better and worse.

Bent introduced me to his wife, Inge, who appeared with a plate of butter biscuits and no surprise whatsoever. "He loves a rescue," she said, nodding at her husband. "Last month it was a German with a caravan stuck in the lane. Month before, a Dutchman who tried to barbecue in a storm." She spoke with the resigned fondness of someone long accustomed to her husband's unofficial role as village troubleshooter. They were both in their seventies, both wearing well-worn knitwear, both clearly delighted to have fresh material.

I spent that first evening on their terrace rather than my own, which tells you everything about how the stay was shaping up. Bent produced beers from a fridge that must have been manufactured in the 1980s, and Inge brought out a cheese that she insisted was local, though she admitted the cows technically lived five kilometres away. "Still Danish," she said firmly, as if I might challenge this. We discussed my plans, such as they were. Walking. Maybe the beach. Definitely not driving anywhere complicated. Bent approved of this last ambition.

The light faded slowly, that endless northern summer evening where ten o'clock still feels like late afternoon. Inge talked about the changes she had seen, the holiday homes multiplying, the young people leaving for Aalborg. But she said it without bitterness, more with the gentle observation of someone who has found her place and sees no reason to resent others finding theirs. Bent, meanwhile, had moved on to explaining the proper way to spot a herring gull versus a common gull, complete with sound effects that sent Inge into quiet despair.

I walked back to my own terrace eventually, keys now permanently in my pocket, and stood listening to the distant sea. The mishap had become the introduction. The locked car had unlocked something better than a door: the particular generosity of people who have time, who notice, who keep a wire handy for strangers in distress. I had come for the dunes and the quiet, which I would certainly get. But I had not expected to find myself adopted by a retired rescue service with excellent biscuits and questionable bird impressions.

Some holidays you plan. Others, apparently, require you to lock your keys in the car to truly begin.