I had convinced myself that driving from Copenhagen to Gilleleje would be a doddle. One hour, straight up the coast, probably scenic. What I had not accounted for was my own spectacular ability to turn a simple journey into a minor farce.

It began with the hire car, which was roughly the size of a postage stamp and had a sat nav that appeared to be having some sort of existential crisis. Every roundabout near Helsingor sent it into a spin. "Turn left," it would insist, as I circled for the third time, gripping the steering wheel like I was wrestling a particularly stubborn shopping trolley. By the time I reached the outskirts of Gilleleje, I was forty minutes late, slightly sweaty, and in desperate need of a wee.

The mishap, when it came, was almost impressively mundane. I pulled into what I thought was the car park for Gilleleje Strand, grabbed my overnight bag from the boot, and marched with false confidence towards a handsome wooden building. I had almost reached the door, congratulating myself on my efficiency, when a very polite Danish woman emerged and informed me, in perfect English, that I was about to check into the local bowling club. The actual holiday homes were two hundred metres further down, past the little harbour, right where the beach actually started. Of course they were.

I laughed, she laughed, and I performed what I can only describe as a walk of mild shame back to my car, now clutching my bag like a man who had briefly forgotten how addresses work.

When I finally found the right place, the difference was immediate. The properties sit almost directly on Gilleleje Strand, with that particular stretch of North Zealand coast unfurling in front of you like someone has ironed the horizon. The Baltic was doing its usual thing, grey-green and glittering, with the wind making proper white horses out past the breakwater. I stood there for a moment, bag still in hand, and felt the particular relief that comes from finally being somewhere you are actually meant to be.

The key collection was straightforward, mercifully, and stepping inside brought that lovely sense of Danish practicality. Clean lines, good light, nothing fussy. A kitchen that actually looked like someone had cooked in it before, rather than one designed purely for photographs. I opened the terrace doors and the wind came straight in, carrying salt and the distant sound of someone clanking about on a boat. I did not close them. Some draughts are worth having.

My first evening was not ambitious. I walked the hundred yards or so down to the harbour, still slightly reeling from my bowling club detour, and ate pickled herring on rye bread at a little place where the waiter did not seem to find my arrival story particularly remarkable. I suppose they get all sorts. The sun did that slow Scandinavian drop, turning everything butter-coloured and then suddenly grey, and I walked back along the beach with my shoes in my hand, cold water occasionally catching my ankles.

Lying in bed that night, listening to the sea through the open window, I thought about how often I arrive somewhere already slightly defeated by my own incompetence. The wrong building, the confused sat nav, the stubborn refusal to simply read instructions properly. Yet there is something about the moment after the mishap, when you finally stop moving and let the place settle around you, that feels earned in a way seamless arrivals never quite do. Gilleleje had already forgiven me my nonsense. The sea does not care which door you try first.