I should have known the holiday was going to be characterful when I got lost before even reaching Skaven Strand. The satnav decided that a tractor track through a sugar beet field was definitely the main road to West Jutland, and I spent twenty minutes reversing past a very unimpressed herd of cattle while my partner read the map upside down. We arrived at the little cluster of holiday homes with mud on the bumper, slightly hysterical, and in desperate need of a cuppa.

The first person we properly met was Bent, who was mowing the communal grass with a machine that looked older than he was. He cut the engine when he saw us peering at house numbers and wandered over with that particular West Jutland pace that suggests nobody is in any particular rush. "You are the English," he announced, which was impressive given we'd never spoken. "Your predecessor left a frying pan. Very bad condition." This was apparently the standard greeting. He showed us where to park, explained the bin system with the gravity of a man describing nuclear codes, and mentioned that his wife made excellent rhubarb jam if we were interested. We were, desperately, by this point.

The property itself was one of those sturdy Danish holiday homes, all wood panelling and practical corners, with a view of Ringkobing Fjord that made the cattle incident almost worth it. Almost. But it was the people that made the place, as I discovered when I went to the little local shop for milk and emerged an hour later with the life story of Lene behind the till. She had opinions about British tea, which she considered "too much water, not enough event," and insisted I try a Danish breakfast blend that she kept under the counter for special cases. I was apparently a special case. She also warned me about the wind, which she described as a local personality rather than a weather condition. "It will push you," she said, with the satisfaction of someone who had been pushed many times herself.

That evening we walked down to the water and found a small group of locals gathered for what they called "the sunset watch," though the sun was doing its usual Jutland trick of hiding behind dramatic clouds. There was Erik, who fished the fjord in a boat held together by optimism and caulking, and his neighbour Karin, who knitted constantly and commented on everything. She informed me that my coat was insufficient, that my walking boots were acceptable, and that I should come to the community breakfast on Saturday if I wanted to understand anything about Danish happiness. "It is the rye bread," she said firmly. "Also the silence. You English talk too much, but it is not your fault."

The Saturday breakfast was held in a village hall that smelled of coffee and decades of sensible decisions. I found myself seated next to a man called Henrik who spoke in such a soft mumble that I spent most of the meal leaning awkwardly across the table. He told me about the history of Skaven Strand, how the holiday homes had been built in the seventies by optimistic Copenhagen families who wanted to experience "the real Jutland," and how the locals had gradually accepted them as a source of entertainment. "We thought you would be more sophisticated," he said, with what I think was affection. "But you are just people. This is nice."

I thought about that comment later, sitting on the little wooden deck with my inadequate coat and my acceptable boots, watching the wind push the reeds flat against the fjord. There was something in what Henrik said that stuck with me. I had come to West Jutland with my satnav and my assumptions, my need to be somewhere and achieve something even on holiday. And these people, with their excellent rhubarb jam and their wind warnings and their quiet conviction that a community breakfast was the height of social life, had gently undone all of that. They were not performing Danishness for tourists. They were just being themselves, which was more than enough.

On our last morning, Bent appeared again with a jar of that jam and a look of profound satisfaction. "You survived," he said. "Many do not." I never did find out what happened to the others. We drove back through proper roads this time, slightly heavier with jam and rye bread and the memory of conversations that had no particular point except human connection. The satnav behaved itself, which felt almost disappointing. Some part of me, I realised, had been hoping for another tractor track, another chance to be rescued by strangers who would become, however briefly, the whole reason for the journey.