I have never been so relieved to see a wooden bench in my entire life. After three hours of driving from Copenhagen Airport, during which I managed to get lost twice in the same roundabout near Hillerod, I finally pulled up to the Ebbelokke. My partner was giving me that look, the one that says "I told you to download the offline maps," and my left leg had developed a cramp that made me walk like a pirate. Still, there it was: a proper Danish summerhouse, all red wood and white trim, sitting among pine trees with the late afternoon sun turning everything golden.

The mishap, because there is always a mishap with me, happened approximately thirty seconds after I declared "I've got this" and grabbed the key from the lockbox. In my defence, the instructions mentioned a "shed" for the bicycles. What they did not mention was that the shed door, when opened with too much enthusiasm, has a step down that is basically invisible to anyone wearing sunglasses and carrying three bags of shopping from the Netto in Helsinge. I went down like a sack of potatoes. The shopping went everywhere. A tub of spreadable cheese achieved what I can only describe as escape velocity, and I lay there on the gravel thinking about every life choice that had led to this moment.

My partner, it must be said, laughed for a solid minute before helping me up. The cheese was beyond saving. But standing there, brushing gravel off my elbow, I finally took in where we actually were. The Ebbelokke is one of those classic North Zealand summerhouses, the kind Danish families have been escaping to for generations. Ours had a little covered terrace with weathered wooden furniture, the kind that looks uncomfortable but somehow is not. Beyond the trees, you could just make out the shimmer of Tisvildeleje not far off, that stretch of coast where everyone goes to pretend they are in a different century.

Inside smelled of pine and something else, something clean and slightly salty that I suspect comes from years of windows being left open to the Kattegat breeze. The kitchen was compact in that efficient Scandinavian way, all white cabinets and a kettle that boiled with alarming speed. I made tea with the emergency stash I always travel with, because I am British and priorities are priorities, and sat on that blessed bench outside while my partner dealt with the cheese casualty.

What struck me then, nursing my elbow and my dignity, was how quiet it was. Not the unsettling quiet of isolation, but the purposeful quiet of a place that knows exactly what it is. Somewhere out there, probably within walking distance, was the path down to the beach at Tisvilde Hegn, those dunes and that peculiar light that North Zealand does so well. I could already imagine the morning walk, the coffee from that terrifyingly efficient kettle in a travel mug, the scramble over pine roots to the sand.

But that evening, I did not move from the bench. I watched the light change through the trees and listened to nothing much at all, except my partner humming inside while unpacking and the occasional distant sound of a bicycle on the lane. The Ebbelokke had already done what these places do best. It had slowed everything down to its own pace, gravel injuries and lost cheese notwithstanding.

I still walked like a pirate for the first two days, mind. Some first impressions you simply have to own.