I have never been so happy to see a wooden gate in my life. Twelve hours after leaving Manchester, there I stood in Rowy, on Poland's Baltic coast, staring at a latch I could not work out for love nor money.

The journey had been one of those classic British holiday specials. Up at four, M6 roadworks, a Ryanair flight where I paid more for a sandwich than my seat, then a hire car with a sat nav that insisted on pronouncing every Polish village as if it were coughing up a hairball. By the time I reached the little lanes near Rowy, I was running on coffee and stubbornness. And then the mishap. In my wisdom, I had packed the cottage key in my checked suitcase. Which I had very carefully placed in the boot. And then very carefully locked the boot with the key inside. Along with my phone charger, my proper shoes, and my last shred of dignity.

I stood in that sandy lane, swatting at midges, contemplating whether to cry or to laugh. A woman walking a dachshund passed by, gave me a look that said she had seen this film before, and pointed me toward a neighbour who apparently had the spare. Ten minutes of broken Polish and enthusiastic hand gestures later, I was through that blessed gate.

And oh, what a difference a gate makes. The cottage sat tucked among pine trees, all weathered timber and red roof tiles, with a garden that smelled of warm resin and the sea somewhere just beyond. I had expected the Baltic to feel like a lesser cousin to our rough Cornish coast, but the air here carries something different. Softer, somehow, threaded with that faint brine you only get when a sea is genuinely cold.

The cottage itself was simple and spotless. White walls, wooden floors that creaked in friendly places, a kitchen window framing nothing but green needles and sky. I kicked off my shoes - the flip-flops I had thankfully carried on my person - and felt the boards warm from a day of sun. The kind of warmth that seeps into your shoulders and tells you, finally, you have stopped moving.

I made tea with a kettle that took its time, then walked barefoot onto the little wooden deck with my mug still in hand. The garden ran down to a hedge, and beyond that I could hear the sea. Not crashing, not dramatic, just a steady hush that might have been traffic or might have been waves. I chose to believe waves. A blackbird was having an absolute go at something in the bushes, completely unbothered by my exhaustion.

There is a particular moment in a holiday, I think, when the journey finally peels away from you. For me it came right there, with cheap tea in a proper mug, my suitcase still locked in a car I would deal with tomorrow, and the Baltic breeze finding its way through the pines. I had made a right mess of the arrival. Lost my keys, my dignity, probably several hours of sleep I would never recover. But I had also made it here. To this quiet corner where the sand meets the forest and the sea keeps its own steady time.

Tomorrow I would explore the beach, find the local shops, work out where to buy decent milk. Tonight I just sat there, watching the light fade through the trees, feeling very small and very glad and very much in need of an early night.