We set off from Hamburg at half past six in the morning, full of that particular optimism that only a holiday booking can produce. My partner had insisted on navigating, which should have been my first warning. By the time we reached Schleswig-Holstein, we had already argued about whether "Olpenitz" was pronounced with a hard or soft z, and I had confidently declared it was definitely "Ol-pen-itz" with a proper German snap to it. This confidence would prove misplaced in more ways than one.

The mishap came at a petrol station somewhere near Eckernforde. I had popped inside for crisps and a loo break, leaving my partner in charge of the sat nav. When I returned, she had somehow managed to select "shortest route" rather than "fastest," and we spent the next forty minutes bumping down a farm track that grew progressively narrower until we were essentially driving through someone's cabbage field. A farmer in a flat cap stood by his gate, arms crossed, watching our rental car with the amused patience of a man who had seen this exact scene play out a hundred times before. I wound down the window and attempted my best "Entschuldigung," which came out sounding more like I was clearing my throat. He pointed wordlessly back the way we had come, then added, in perfect English, "Your first time to Ostseeresort?" We nodded, sheepish. He laughed, a proper belly laugh, and said, "The sat nav does this. Always. You are not special." There was something weirdly comforting in that.

Properly routed at last, we pulled into the resort and found our Casa Gran Canaria, a modern timber-framed house with enormous windows facing the Baltic. The key collection point was a small office near the marina, staffed by a woman called Birgit who appeared to be simultaneously managing three phone calls, a coffee machine, and a small dog that had made itself comfortable on a stack of brochures. She handed over our keys with the efficiency of someone who had done this ten thousand times, then paused and asked, in the manner of a doctor delivering test results, "You know about the heating?" We did not know about the heating. Birgit's expression suggested this was both expected and mildly tragic. She explained, slowly and with great kindness, that the underfloor system took approximately four hours to become noticeable and that previous guests had made this discovery with various degrees of dramatic response. "One man," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "he called at midnight. Midnight! To say he was dying of cold. I told him, blankets exist. He did not laugh. Some people do not laugh."

The house itself was immaculate, all pale wood and clean lines, with a balcony that looked directly out over the water. I immediately attempted to operate the coffee machine, a sleek German affair with more buttons than a space shuttle, and succeeded only in producing a noise like a distressed cat. My partner went to find the instructions, and I stood there in the kitchen, pretending I had meant to make that sound, when a face appeared at the sliding door. An elderly man in a quilted jacket, presumably our neighbour, gestured for me to open it. I did so, and he stepped inside without waiting for invitation, walked directly to the machine, pressed three buttons in sequence, and handed me a perfect espresso. "You pressed the milk button," he said, in heavily accented English. "There is no milk. You asked for milk. The machine is confused. You are confused. Everyone is confused." He introduced himself as Klaus, retired engineer from Kiel, spending six weeks at the resort because his wife had told him to "get out from under her feet" during her sister's visit. He said this with evident pride, as though it represented a significant tactical victory.

We spent the next hour on our balcony with Klaus, who produced a flask of something herbal and proceeded to deliver a comprehensive critique of the resort's architecture, the regional fishing quotas, and his grandson's regrettable career in "digital marketing, whatever that means." A woman called out from the next balcony over, "Klaus! You are bothering the new people!" This was Ingrid, his wife, who had apparently arrived to check on him. She joined us anyway, bringing actual biscuits, and the four of us sat there as the afternoon light turned golden over the Baltic, discussing nothing in particular with the particular intensity that strangers sometimes manage when they know they will never meet again.

By evening, the heating had begun its slow, dignified warming of the floors. We walked down to the marina, where a small restaurant was doing brisk business in fried fish and local beer. The waiter, a young man with an elaborate moustache, took our order and asked where we were staying. When I said the Casa Gran Canaria, he nodded seriously and said, "Ah, Klaus's house. He will visit you. He visits everyone. He is harmless. Mostly." This turned out to be the local assessment of Klaus generally accepted, delivered with the fond exasperation of a small community that has long ago stopped being surprised by its own characters.

We fell asleep that night to the sound of water and the distant clank of boats in the marina, full of fried plaice and local pilsner, already composing the story of the cabbage field to tell at dinner parties. Some holidays impress you with their grandeur. This one, already, was winning me over with its small, specific humanity, the particular texture of a place where people still have time to be slightly odd, and to find that oddness worth sharing.