I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put the postcode into Google Maps and it confidently directed me to what turned out to be a tractor shed outside Helsingor. Three U-turns, one heated debate about whether I should just "trust my instincts," and a very patient wife later, we finally found the proper turning for Udsholt Strand. The satnav had been trying to send us down a gravel track clearly designed exclusively for determined rabbits.

We pulled up to the cottage in that particular state of family travel chaos: one child asleep with a crisp packet stuck to her cheek, the other asking for the eighth time if Denmark has different clouds than England, and me nursing a lukewarm coffee that had somehow spilled inside the cup holder three hours previously. The key safe code worked first time though, which felt like a minor miracle on par with winning a tenner on a scratch card.

Stepping inside, the first thing that hit me was the smell of pine and slightly too much air freshener, that distinctive holiday rental bouquet that somehow says "someone has tried very hard." The living room was all light wood and comfortable-looking sofas with those slightly too firm cushions that you know will soften up by day three. My daughter immediately claimed the bedroom with the bunk beds, shrieking with the kind of joy usually reserved for Christmas morning, while my wife and I exchanged glances that said we both knew we'd be listening to creaking mattress springs above our heads all week.

I made the classic dad mistake of attempting to "explore the grounds" before unpacking, which meant I spent twenty minutes trying to work out how the terrace doors locked while mosquitoes discovered my ankles with great enthusiasm. The garden sloped gently down toward some trees, and beyond them I could just glimpse the water of the Kattegat. Not a proper sea view from the house itself, but enough to remind you why you'd come. There's something about that particular Danish light in the late afternoon, all soft and golden, that makes even a man standing in his socks on slightly damp decking feel vaguely poetic.

The kitchen was compact but surprisingly well-equipped, though I did spend an embarrassing amount of time searching for a kettle before remembering that Scandinavians generally just boil water in a saucepan like sensible people. I felt briefly like a colonial throwback yearning for my electric conveniences, then made peace with my saucepan tea and moved on.

By evening, we'd established our positions: children shrieking in the garden, my wife reading on the sofa with that particular expression of someone finally not driving, and me attempting to work the barbecue with Danish charcoal that seemed to require either wizardry or patience I do not possess. The sausages were charred on the outside and questionable within, which I declared "authentic" and ate anyway.

Sitting there as the light finally faded, listening to my children argue about who had seen the most interesting beetle, I felt that particular holiday feeling creep in. The one where you remember that this is enough, really: a slightly wonky cottage, a glimpse of water, and nowhere particularly to be tomorrow. We'd already got lost, slightly burned the dinner, and I had seventeen mosquito bites. The week, I suspected, was going to be absolutely perfect.