The thing about driving to Nr. Lyngby in North Jutland is that you think you've prepared. You've got your phone charged, your printed directions folded neatly in the glovebox like it's 2003, and a healthy sense of Scandinavian optimism. What you don't account for is your sat-nav developing what I can only describe as an existential crisis somewhere past Aalborg.

"Turn left," it commanded, as we approached what was clearly a field of very determined-looking cows. I turned left. We ended up on a farm track so narrow that I had to fold in the wing mirrors and apologise to a tractor driver who looked at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for tourists who try to pronounce "rodgrod med flode."

My partner, who had been peacefully navigating from the passenger seat, put down her phone and said, "We're lost, aren't we?" with the resigned tone of someone who has been lost with me before.

We were indeed lost. Gloriously, completely lost. The sat-nav had given up entirely and was now suggesting we drive into the Limfjord. We pressed on, following a sign that pointed toward "strand" - beach - because how wrong can you go heading toward the sea in a coastal village?

Quite wrong, as it happens. But also, quite wonderfully right.

We found ourselves bumping down a sandy lane between two dunes, emerging onto a stretch of coast that I am fairly certain does not appear on any tourist brochure. The beach was empty except for a solitary man walking what appeared to be three identical golden retrievers, and the light had that particular pale-gold quality that North Jutland does in late afternoon, when the sky seems to stretch forever and the sea turns almost silver.

We sat there for twenty minutes, engine off, just watching the water. The holiday cottage could wait.

When we finally did find Nr. Lyngby - by following a local cyclist who seemed to sense our desperation and led us there with the patience of a Danish saint - we discovered that our little detour had been the best possible introduction. The cottage itself was charming in that straightforward Scandinavian way, all clean lines and unexpected cosiness, with a view across the fields that made the sat-nav debacle feel like a necessary pilgrimage.

The next morning, still wary of technology, we decided to get deliberately lost. We walked south along the coastal path without checking where it went, trusting the logic of footpaths. Within half an hour we stumbled upon a tiny harbour, little more than a cluster of painted wooden sheds and a slipway where two elderly men were repairing nets with the unhurried precision of a craft they had practiced for decades. They nodded at us. We nodded back. No one attempted conversation beyond that, which suited everyone perfectly.

Further on, we found a bench positioned apparently at random on a grassy bluff, overlooking nothing in particular and everything in general. Someone had left a coffee thermos there, half-full, as if they had simply wandered off mid-thought. We sat. The wind carried salt and the distant sound of a dog barking. My partner observed that she was beginning to understand why Danes are consistently ranked among the happiest people on earth, and I observed that I was beginning to understand why I should never be trusted with navigation.

We found our way back by following the smell of smoke from a garden bonfire, which led us to a lane, which led us to a road we recognised. The whole afternoon had been an accident, and it had been perfect.

That evening, we cooked fish from a local smokehouse - discovered by taking a wrong turn on the way to what we thought was a supermarket - and ate it looking out at a sunset that painted the sky in colours I have no Danish words for. The sat-nav sat silent and reproachful on the kitchen counter. We ignored it, gloriously.

There is something about North Jutland that rewards the lost. The landscape does not shout; it murmurs. The beaches do not crowd; they wait. The villages do not perform; they simply exist, quietly, confidently, as they have for generations. To find the good stuff, you have to be willing to miss your turning, to trust a sandy track, to accept that the cows may know more than your technology.

I still cannot pronounce "rodgrod med flode." I still cannot reliably operate a sat-nav. But I can find my way to a stretch of empty Danish coast, given enough wrong turns and sufficient stubbornness. Some skills, I am learning, are better than navigation.