I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I put the postcode into my phone and it directed me to what turned out to be someone's private driveway twenty minutes in the wrong direction. There I was, knocking on a bewildered Danish man's door at half past four, waving my booking confirmation about like a white flag of surrender. He was terribly polite about it, mind you. Just pointed vaguely towards the coast and said "Gniben" with a slight shrug, as if that explained everything.

The actual approach to Gniben Strand is rather more dramatic than my satnav catastrophe suggested. You wind through proper North Zealand countryside, all rolling fields and those red-roofed farmhouses that look like they've been lifted straight from a children's book. Then suddenly the trees thin out and there it is, the Kattegat glittering away in the afternoon light, and you remember why you bothered with the ferry in the first place.

The property itself sits in that particular kind of Danish coastal landscape where the beach grasses have been left to do their own thing and the sand seems to creep right up to the doorstep. I stumbled out of the car, still slightly rattled from my navigational humiliation, and promptly dropped my house keys into the gravel. Spent a good five minutes on my hands and knees feeling about like someone who'd lost a contact lens, which I haven't worn since 2008.

The cottage has that satisfying Scandinavian thing going on where everything looks terribly minimalist until you actually try to operate it. I spent an embarrassing amount of time attempting to unlock the door with what turned out to be the shed key, all the while being watched by a seagull who seemed to be enjoying the performance. The proper key, naturally, was the one I'd assumed was for the utility cupboard.

Stepping inside for the first time, you get that particular smell of pine and salt air and whatever it is they clean holiday lets with. The living area opens up towards the water through windows that are far too clean for my clumsy existence. I immediately walked straight into the coffee table, which I hadn't spotted because I was too busy gawping at the view. There's a sort of open-plan arrangement that makes you feel terribly sophisticated, right up until you realise you've no idea which light switch does what and you end up plunging the whole place into darkness at six in the evening.

I had grand plans for a proper explore of the immediate area that first afternoon, perhaps a dignified stroll along the shore with a thermos. What actually happened was that I discovered the outdoor shower, decided to test it, and found myself shrieking like a child as the water temperature went from arctic to scalding with no warning whatsoever. A couple walking their dog along the nearby path definitely heard me. We made eye contact. I waved, still damp and wrapped in a towel that was slightly too small for genuine dignity.

The kitchen, I will say, redeemed the entire afternoon. Properly equipped in that understated Danish way where everything has its place and actually works. I made a cup of tea that tasted of triumph and mild concussion, then took it out to the terrace to watch the light change over the water. The seagull had returned, presumably hoping for an encore.

There's something about that first evening at a coastal place, isn't there? You're still slightly disoriented from the journey, surrounded by unfamiliar cupboards and light switches that require a degree in engineering, and yet the rhythm of the place starts to settle on you. I sat there with my questionable tea, feet sandy from a brief and rather colder-than-expected paddle, and felt that particular holiday sensation of having absolutely nothing urgent to do tomorrow.

The mishaps of arrival had become funny already, which is the thing about travelling alone I suppose. There's no one to share the immediate mortification with, but also no one to remind you of it later. Just me, the seagull, and the quiet knowledge that I'd found the right place eventually, even if I had annoyed a stranger and bruised my shin in the process.

I went to bed that night in unfamiliar sheets, slightly sunburned on one shoulder where I'd missed with the cream, and slept better than I had in months.