I should have known the Danish autumn was already in full swing when I packed three T-shirts and a single "just in case" jumper for our trip to Saltum. The satnav had been cheerfully optimistic about the drive from Aalborg Airport, promising forty minutes of straightforward Jutland countryside. What it failed to mention was the particular enthusiasm of North Jutland's October weather, which greeted us with horizontal rain and a wind that made our hired VW Polo feel like a tin can in a washing machine.

The mishap came at a roundabout somewhere near Pandrup. My partner, who had nobly volunteered to navigate, suddenly yelped and dropped the printed directions into a puddle of coffee on his lap. In the ensuing chaos of napkins and mild profanity, I missed our exit entirely and found myself heading towards Blokhus with the grim determination of someone pretending this was intentional. We looped back through lanes lined with bare birch trees, their last golden leaves plastering themselves to the windscreen like nature's own confetti of mild regret.

By the time we spotted the Saltum holiday home down a gravel track, the afternoon light was already fading at that depressingly efficient Scandinavian rate. The house sat low and sensible against the grey sky, all dark wood and practical Danish design, with a small terrace that looked out towards what I assumed was the North Sea somewhere beyond the dunes. In summer, I imagined, you would sit there with a glass of white wine and watch children play on the grass. In late October, the terrace furniture had been stacked with the resigned air of someone who knows better than to argue with the season.

The key was in the lockbox as promised, though my frozen fingers made the code entry feel like a minor intelligence test. The door opened to that particular smell of holiday homes everywhere - slightly woody, faintly of cleaning products, with an undertone of other people's peaceful weekends. But there was something else too, something I only recognised later: the scent of a place that had been thoroughly aired after summer's departure, all windows flung open in a final gasp before the heating went on for winter.

I made the immediate mistake of checking the thermostat. Twenty degrees, perfectly reasonable, yet I found myself gravitating towards the wood-burning stove like a moth to a particularly sensible flame. My partner, still damp from his coffee incident, had already discovered the underfloor heating in the bathroom and was making noises of profound spiritual contentment.

The kitchen window framed a view of windswept marram grass and, beyond it, the faint suggestion of beach that would be our morning destination. But not yet. For now, we were creatures of the season, drawn inward by the early dark and the promise of hygge that the Danes have made into both art form and survival strategy. I put the kettle on, found the stash of candles in a kitchen drawer, and conceded that perhaps one jumper had been optimistic.

We ventured out only as far as the terrace, wrapped in blankets from the cupboard that clearly existed for exactly this purpose. The wind carried salt and the distant sound of waves, and somewhere a dog barked with the enthusiasm of something that doesn't check weather apps. My partner, absurd in his borrowed wool hat, admitted he was actually rather glad we'd missed summer's crowds.

I watched the last light leak from the sky, faster than seemed decent, and felt the peculiar contentment of being exactly where the season wanted you - indoors, warm, slightly ridiculous in your preparations, and entirely at the mercy of North Jutland's magnificent, moody October.