I have never been so relieved to see a wooden beach hut in my entire life. After six hours of driving from Copenhagen Airport, complete with a sat-nav that insisted Liseleje was pronounced "Liz-EEL-ya" in a posh robotic voice, I finally rolled up to our little place at Liseleje Strand. The mishap? I had packed for a Danish summer. The reality? Horizontal rain and a wind that made my trusty Marks and Spencer umbrella turn inside out before I had even shut the car door. There it went, cartwheeling across the car park like something from a particularly depressing Mary Poppins remake. My partner just stood there, arms crossed, saying "I did tell you to check the forecast" in that tone that manages to be both supportive and deeply irritating.

The cottage itself, once we wrestled the key from a slightly rusted lock box, was an absolute charmer. Proper Danish beach house style, all pale wood and big windows looking out towards the Kattegat. You could smell the sea even with the weather doing its best impression of a Scottish November. I dumped our bags, made the obligatory cup of tea with the slightly confusing Scandinavian kettle, and immediately started googling "walking routes Liseleje" with the desperate optimism of someone who refuses to let meteorology ruin a holiday.

The next morning dawned grey but still, which in my book counts as practically a heatwave. We set off for what the local map called the "Kyststi" coastal path, heading north towards Tisvildeleje. The beach stretched out in that wild, Scandinavian way, all pale sand and marram grass bending in the wind. Within twenty minutes I had already filled one pocket with interesting stones and developed a slight obsession with the painted wooden beach huts scattered along the shore. Each one had a name and a personality. "Hyggehuset" sat next to "Margrethe's Dream," and I found myself inventing elaborate backstories for their owners.

The weather turned while we were still a good hour from anywhere sensible. Not gradually, mind you, but with that sudden Baltic fierceness that makes you understand why Vikings developed such aggressive coping mechanisms. One moment we were admiring the dunes, the next we were in what I can only describe as a wall of water. My so-called waterproof jacket, purchased in a optimistic moment from a Cotswold Outdoor sale, surrendered immediately. We squelched back to the cottage looking like contestants on one of those survival programmes where nobody wins.

Day three brought proper sunshine, the kind that makes everything forgivable. We tried again, this time heading south towards Liseleje town itself, then cutting inland through the plantations. The Tisvilde Hegn forest sits just behind the coast, all pine needles and soft paths, and walking there felt like being let into a secret. We found a lake, completely still, with a family of ducks who seemed deeply unimpressed by our presence. I sat on a rock, boots still damp from the previous day, and had one of those moments of gentle self-reflection that only really happen on holiday. I am terrible at packing. I am overly optimistic about weather. I will definitely buy another inadequate jacket. But here I was, slightly soggy, slightly lost, and completely content.

The rest of the week became a sort of meteorological roulette. Morning walks in mist that made the beach feel like the edge of the world. Afternoon hikes cut short by sudden showers that sent us scurrying for the nearest beach hut shelter. One memorable evening we walked out to the harbour at Liseleje just as a storm cleared, and the light on the water was so extraordinary that I actually stopped complaining about my feet for a full ten minutes.

By the end, I had developed a strange affection for the changeable conditions. The British in me, I suppose, that deep-seated belief that proper weather builds character. We walked over forty miles in total, according to my phone, though I suspect half of those were sideways steps against the wind. My umbrella never did turn up. I like to think it is still out there somewhere, exploring Denmark without me, free and useless as the day it was made.

I left Liseleje Strand with a bag full of damp clothes, a pocket of questionable stones, and a genuine love for this particular stretch of North Zealand coast. Would I pack better next time? Absolutely not. Some traditions are worth keeping.