The SatNav had been warning me for miles that we were approaching our destination, but when it finally announced "You have reached your destination," we were staring at a field of very unimpressed-looking cows. My husband Dave shot me a look that said, "You booked this," which was deeply unfair since he'd been the one insisting we didn't need to print directions because "the postcode will be fine." It wasn't fine. It was spectacularly wrong, in fact, and we spent twenty minutes doing a slow tour of rural West Jutland that we hadn't planned, during which our youngest was sick in a carrier bag and our eldest announced she'd "rather be at Nana's."

But then we found it. Hemmet Strand. And I don't mind telling you, I actually gasped.

The cottage sat there like something from a postcard we'd have mocked as unrealistic, all weathered wood and big windows looking out towards the North Sea. The grass around it was that particular shade of green you only seem to get in places where it rains frequently but nobody complains because they're too busy being wholesome. Dave and I stood there for a moment, both of us still holding carrier bags of various unpleasantness, just taking it in.

The key was in the lockbox exactly where the instructions said, which felt like a small miracle given our navigational performance. The door opened with that satisfying Scandinavian thunk that British doors never quite manage, and we stepped into warmth and the smell of pine. The kids shot past us before we could issue any warnings about shoes, their wellies clattering on the wood flooring as they discovered the loft bedroom and immediately began arguing about who'd sleep where.

I made a beeline for the kitchen because I'm predictable like that, and found myself actually laughing out loud. It was properly equipped, not the usual holiday let situation where you're expected to cook for five with one blunt knife and a saucepan with no handle. There was a coffee machine that looked like it meant business. Dave appeared at my elbow and whispered, "There's a sauna," with the reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

The living area had these enormous windows, and I understood immediately why they'd built it like that. Even on a grey afternoon, the light coming off the dunes was doing something extraordinary. I could see a path winding through marram grass towards the beach, and beyond that the sea looking thoroughly North Sea-ish, all steel-grey and purposeful.

Our daughter had found the board games cupboard and was attempting to explain the rules of something Danish to her brother, who wasn't listening. Someone had left a guestbook, and I flicked through it while Dave investigated the sauna situation more thoroughly. People wrote about storms and midnight walks and children falling asleep in sandy clothes. It felt like exactly the kind of chaos we were about to contribute to.

I made coffee in the serious machine, which I immediately ruined by using the wrong setting, producing something that tasted like disappointment. Dave emerged pink and steamy from the sauna declaring it "absolutely bang on," and the kids were now wearing every item of spare clothing they'd brought because they'd discovered the terrace door and the wind had discovered them.

We stood there eventually, all four of us, wrapped in blankets on the wooden terrace with my second attempt at coffee, watching the light change over the dunes. The wrong postcode, the sick in the car, the argument about sleeping arrangements - none of it seemed to matter much. The cows were far away now, and we were here, and the week stretched ahead of us full of simple things: sand in sandwiches, probably, and arguments about who used all the hot water, and that particular peace that comes from being somewhere where the main event is just being there together.

Dave squeezed my hand. "Good spot," he said. High praise indeed.