I have never been so grateful for a pair of wellies in my entire life.

The drive down to Mommark Strand from the ferry at Esbjerg had been going so well. Too well, perhaps. My partner and I were congratulating ourselves on our excellent navigation, the Danish countryside was rolling past in that satisfyingly tidy way it has, and we had even remembered to pack the proper coffee. Then, somewhere between Aabenraa and the turning for the village, I spotted what I was absolutely convinced was a shortcut. A gravel track, temptingly signposted with something that looked like it might mean "beach access." Reader, it did not mean beach access. It meant "muddy farm track that will test your hire car's suspension and your passenger's patience." Twenty minutes of apologetic reversing later, we arrived at our holiday cottage with slightly rattled nerves and a Peugeot that would never quite be the same.

The cottage itself, though, made up for everything. We were staying in one of the traditional wooden holiday homes at Mommark Strand, set among low dunes and that particular South Jutland mix of pine and beech that seems to lean slightly inland, as if permanently braced against the wind. The key was in the lockbox, the heating was already on, and someone had left a packet of Danish butter biscuits that we absolutely did not need after four hours in the car but absolutely ate anyway.

We had plans, you see. Grand walking plans. The following morning dawned with that particular grey brightness that British holidaymakers recognise immediately: not quite promising, but not quite ruling anything out either. We set off along the coastal path towards Mommark Harbour, me with my Ordnance Survey habit of checking the map every five minutes despite there being only one direction to go. The path was sandy in places, firm gravel in others, and the sea was doing that flat, silvery thing where you cannot quite tell where the horizon sits.

By midday we had reached the harbour, watched the small boats rocking at their moorings, and felt thoroughly pleased with ourselves. The return loop, we decided, would take us inland through the woods. This was where the weather made its move. Not dramatically, not with thunder or anything cinematic. Just a steady, purposeful Danish drizzle that began somewhere between "I will ignore this" and "my waterproof is not actually waterproof." We pressed on, because that is what one does. The woods became shinier, the path became muddier, and my partner's expression became increasingly fixed in that particular way that suggests someone is choosing not to mention that they had suggested bringing the other coat.

We made it back in what I can only describe as a state of damp triumph. The cottage's underfloor heating had never felt so luxurious. We hung our clothes on every available surface, brewed tea with the intensity of survivors, and laughed at ourselves for being so thoroughly British about a bit of rain. The next day we tried again, heading south towards the point where the coastline becomes more rugged, more exposed. The wind was proper now, the kind that makes you lean into it and feel vaguely heroic for walking at all. We managed perhaps three miles before retreating to a bench sheltered by a dune, sharing a flask of coffee and watching a lone kite surfer making far better use of the conditions than we were.

The week continued in this fashion. Sunshine, then sudden squalls. A glorious morning walk to the local beach where the sand was firm enough for proper striding, followed by an afternoon where we abandoned a longer loop and simply pottered around the cottage's immediate surroundings, watching the weather fronts roll across the water. We became experts in reading the sky, in knowing when to set out and when to accept defeat with a book and another biscuit.

On our final day, the sun came out properly. We walked the full coastal circuit we had been attempting all week, and it was almost irritating how straightforward it felt. The same path that had been a battle against wind and drizzle was now a pleasant stroll, the views were undeniably lovely, and we could not help feeling slightly cheated of our proper adventure.

I think that was the lesson, really. Not that we should have checked the weather forecast more carefully, though obviously we should have. More that the walking we would remember was the slightly foolish, slightly uncomfortable, thoroughly damp walking. The bits where we got it wrong, got wet, got lost on a farm track and had to reverse for twenty minutes. Mommark Strand in fine weather is a perfectly lovely place for a stroll. But Mommark Strand in a Danish drizzle, with the wind making your eyes water and your partner making pointed comments about shortcuts, is where you actually feel you have been somewhere.