The drive from Copenhagen to Odsherred had been all blue skies and smug satisfaction, right up until the moment I confidently turned onto what I believed was the coastal road and found myself nose-to-nose with a tractor in a field entrance. My satnav, which I had trusted implicitly for three hours, had apparently decided I needed to see the back end of a cabbage farm rather than the charming Danish countryside I had been promised. By the time I reversed half a mile down a narrow lane to let the tractor pass, with the driver giving me the sort of sympathetic look usually reserved for lost tourists, I had thoroughly embraced my role as the classic British holidaymaker abroad.

I arrived at Ellinge Lyng in late October, when the Danish autumn was doing its finest work. The property sat among low hills near the coast, a traditional white-washed farmhouse with a thatched roof that looked as though it had grown organically from the landscape rather than been built upon it. The surrounding fields had been harvested to stubble, golden-brown and slightly melancholy, while the hedgerows were thick with rosehips and the last stubborn blackberries. Everything smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, that particular autumn perfume that makes you want to put on a thick jumper and pretend you are a character in a Scandinavian detective drama.

The key was in the lockbox as promised, though I spent an embarrassing ten minutes trying to open it with frozen fingers before realising I had been entering the code backwards. The door swung open into a kitchen that was immediately, comfortingly warm. Someone had left the heating on low, and the radiators ticked contentedly as I stood there with my bags, letting the countryside silence settle around me. Through the window, the afternoon light was already fading towards that soft grey particular to northern European afternoons in late autumn. It was barely four o'clock, yet the day felt spent, generous with its earlier brightness but now gently withdrawing.

I made tea with the supplies I had brought, because some habits survive all travel, and carried it to the sitting room. The thatched roof created wonderful acoustics; every creak of the old wooden floorboards, every gust of wind against the eaves, seemed amplified and intimate. Outside, the garden was surrendering to the season. The lawn was scattered with leaves from the small birch trees, their pale bark luminous against the darkening sky. A wooden table and benches sat forlornly, waiting for summer guests who would not return for months.

What struck me most was how the season had stripped everything back to essentials. In summer, I imagined this place bustling with cycling trips to the nearby beaches, barbecues in that garden, long evenings of impossible lightness. Now, in October, there was a different invitation. The short days demanded a slower rhythm. I found myself lighting candles at five o'clock not for atmosphere but for necessity, watching the flames flicker against windows that showed only my own reflection and the blackness beyond.

That first evening, I walked briefly down the lane before the cold drove me back. The stars were emerging with a clarity that light-polluted England rarely offers. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the sea, though I could not see it. The darkness felt absolute, friendly but uncompromising. This was not a holiday of packed itineraries and sightseeing checklists. The season had made that impossible, and I was grateful.

I returned to the warmth of Ellinge Lyng, to the soft orange glow of lamps and the promise of a long, quiet night. The autumn had given me permission to simply be present, to let the darkness outside mirror a turning inward. It was, I realised, exactly what I had needed, even if I had not known it when I set out that morning, full of confidence and wrong turns.