I had convinced myself that taking the train from Copenhagen Airport to Helsingor would be terribly sophisticated. No frantic driving on the wrong side of the road, no squabbling over sat navs. Just me, my rucksack, and the Danish countryside gliding past in dignified silence. What actually happened was that I fell asleep somewhere near Hillerod and woke up with a start at the end of the line, dribbling slightly onto my own shoulder, to find I had missed my stop by a good twenty minutes. The guard found this hilarious. I did not, at least not until later.

Getting back on the right train felt like a minor victory, and by the time I finally stumbled out at Helsingor station, I was more than ready for the promised coastal walk to my holiday let. The NOVASOL listing had made rather a fuss about the property being "ideally situated for nature lovers," which in estate agent speak usually means "a bit of a trek from the shops." In this case, however, it meant a genuinely glorious stretch of the Danish Riviera, with the Oresund glittering away to one side and pine woods on the other.

I had packed, with typical British optimism, for a mixture of possibilities. This proved wise. The morning I arrived was all blue skies and brisk sea air, the sort of weather that makes you feel faintly heroic just for being outdoors. I set off along the coastal path towards Hornbaek with the energy of a woman who had not just spent two hours going backwards and forwards on Danish railways. The path wound through low dunes and patches of wild rose, and I kept having to stop to let my rucksack dry out from where I had spilled water on it during my earlier nap. A local cyclist passed me three times, looking increasingly puzzled at my lack of progress.

By midday I had reached a small beach near Tikob and was feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. I ate my packed lunch on a rock like a proper adventurer, watching the ferries slide between Denmark and Sweden. The water was that particular Scandinavian blue that makes the North Sea look frankly apologetic. I decided, with the dangerous certainty of the underprepared, that I would walk the full circuit back via the inland path through the woods.

The weather turned while I was still congratulating myself on this excellent plan. Not gradually, not with any meteorological politeness, but with a suddenness that felt almost personal. One moment I was admiring the pine needles, the next I was standing in what I can only describe as a vertical lake. My "waterproof" jacket, purchased in a hurry from a shop that should have known better, proved to be waterproof in roughly the same way a sieve is waterproof. I squelched onwards, telling myself that this was character-building and that the Danes probably thought nothing of it.

The woods became suddenly less picturesque and more "where exactly am I again?" I had neglected to download offline maps, another decision that seemed less clever with each passing minute of downpour. A family of deer watched me pass with the expression deer reserve for humans who have made poor life choices. I waved at them. They did not wave back.

I found my way back to Helsingor Strand eventually, by following the sound of the sea and a certain stubborn refusal to admit I was lost. The holiday home, when I finally reached it, looked like the most beautiful building I had ever seen, largely because it was dry inside. I stood in the shower for a solid twenty minutes, watching pine needles circle the drain, and reflected that my grand walking adventure had covered perhaps four miles in total and taken the better part of six hours.

The next morning I woke to find the sun had returned, shameless as anything. I made coffee and sat on the small terrace, studying the map properly this time. The coastal path stretched away in both directions, inviting and treacherous. I would walk it again, of course. But perhaps with a better jacket, actual downloaded maps, and a slightly humbler sense of my own capabilities. The British weather had followed me to Denmark, or something very like it, and I had been thoroughly schooled. Still, there is something about being slightly damp and mostly lost that makes the eventual cup of tea taste all the better. I finished my coffee and went to find where I had left my boots, still steaming gently in the hallway.