I have never been so relieved to see a red roof in my life. Three hours, two wrong turns, and one spectacular argument with a satnav that clearly had it in for me, and there it was: our little Kelstrup cottage, squatting among the flat fields of South Jutland like a friendly brick toad.

The mishap, because there is always a mishap with me, happened just outside Haderslev. I had stopped for petrol and, in my finest British tradition of assuming everyone speaks fluent English if you just speak loudly enough, I managed to convince myself that "diesel" and "benzin" were basically the same thing. They are not, as the helpful attendant explained with the patient smile of someone who has dealt with many idiots before me. He waved off my embarrassed offer to pay for the inconvenience, patted my arm, and said something in Danish that I choose to believe was "bless your heart" rather than "how are you still alive."

By the time I reached the Kelstrup, my hands were still shaking slightly from the diesel incident and from navigating roads so straight and flat they seemed designed to lull drivers into existential crises. The property itself was perfect in its unpretentiousness: red wooden walls, white trim, a little terrace that looked out towards the fjord. I stood there with my suitcase, suddenly aware that I had packed three novels and no tea towels, and felt that peculiar holiday sensation of being both completely free and slightly terrified.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for an embarrassing length of time while a man across the lane watched from his garden. He made no move to help, just observed with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary. When I finally got inside, I discovered he had followed me, carrying a bowl of strawberries from his own plants. "You are the English," he said, which was not a question. "I am Jens. These are for when you are sad about the diesel."

Word travels fast in South Jutland, apparently. Or perhaps Jens simply has excellent timing and a network of petrol station informants.

The cottage was simple and spotless, with that particular Scandinavian talent for making minimalism feel cosy rather than cold. But I barely had time to appreciate it before Jens had settled himself at the kitchen table, apparently invited by himself, and was explaining the local area with the thoroughness of a man who rarely gets visitors and intends to make the most of it. The fjord, he said, pointing vaguely eastward, was excellent for walking if you did not mind wind. The village shop closed at half past four and woe betide anyone who needed milk after. His wife, he added with some pride, made excellent rhubarb jam, and he would bring some tomorrow if I promised not to put diesel in anything else.

I found myself telling him about the journey, the satnav, my terrible Danish. He listened with the serious expression of a therapist, occasionally interjecting with "ja, ja" in a way that suggested he understood everything and nothing. When I mentioned I was here to do absolutely nothing for a week, his face lit up. "This is the best thing," he said. "The English always want to do things. Museums, castles, shopping. You will sit. You will look at the fjord. You will become like us."

I am not sure I want to become like Jens, exactly, but I appreciated the sentiment. He left eventually, after inspecting my inadequate tea towel situation and promising to bring his wife's spare ones, along with the rhubarb jam and possibly some advice about my driving.

That evening I sat on the terrace with one of my novels and a glass of wine, watching the light change over the fields. A woman cycled past, waved cheerfully, and shouted something I did not catch. I waved back, feeling suddenly and unexpectedly at home in this flat, windy corner of Denmark where strangers bring you strawberries and mock your fuel choices and somehow make you feel less like a tourist and more like a project they have decided to adopt.

The satnav, I have learned, is staying in the car for the rest of the week. Some wrong turns, it turns out, lead exactly where you need to go.