I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I got my left and right confused before we'd even reached the ferry. There I was, sat in the passenger seat barking directions at my partner like some budget sat nav, when I confidently instructed a turn towards what I insisted was "definitely the scenic route." Forty minutes of increasingly narrow Danish farm tracks later, we found ourselves staring at a very closed gate and a very unimpressed-looking herd of cattle. The scenic route, it turned out, was actually just someone's field. My partner's expression suggested divorce was not off the table.

We eventually reached Asserballeskov in Als by more conventional means, and I must say the place immediately forgave my navigational sins. The property sits among proper Danish woodland, all whispering beeches and that particular quality of light that makes everything look slightly magical, as though you've wandered into a particularly well-funded episode of The Killing but with less murder and more excellent cheese.

The kitchen, I noted with greedy relief, was properly equipped. Not one of those holiday rentals where "fully equipped" means one blunt knife and a colander with a hole in it. This had the works. I had plans. Grand plans. I'd been reading about Danish smorrebrod and fancied myself capable of constructing something Instagram-worthy. The reality, as ever, was rather more humbling.

Our first morning saw me marching to a local market with the confidence of a man who'd watched approximately two cooking programmes. I returned with rye bread, pickled herring, various cheeses I couldn't pronounce, and something called "spegepolse" that I later discovered was essentially fancy salami. My attempt at open-faced sandwiches resembled less a Copenhagen cafe and more a toddler's first encounter with playdough. The herring slid off. The cheese wobbled. My partner ate three in diplomatic silence, then suggested perhaps we find a pub.

This proved wise counsel. We discovered a splendid local spot where the beer was cold and the portions generous enough to make a Yorkshireman weep with gratitude. I had a pork roast that could only be described as architectural, with crackling like a demolition site in the best possible way. My partner went for the fish, because apparently when in Denmark one must eat things that have spent their lives looking at you suspiciously from fjords.

The following days developed a pleasant rhythm. Mornings meant fumbling attempts at Danish breakfast, which I've decided is essentially just cheese and denial. We'd drive to nearby markets, me invariably purchasing too much of everything, convinced I was "getting the authentic experience." The authentic experience, I slowly realised, involved me standing in a foreign kitchen at half past six, swearing at a pan of burnt caramelised potatoes while my partner made sensible suggestions about perhaps just ordering pizza.

I did improve marginally. By day four my smorrebrod actually stayed on the bread, though I use "stayed" loosely. We found a brilliant little place doing proper Danish pastries, which I ate with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. The baker spoke approximately twelve words of English, all of them apparently relating to butter content, and we communicated entirely through appreciative noises and gestures.

One evening we attempted to cook a full Danish dinner. The recipe called for aquavit, which I treated with suspicious respect given previous encounters with Scandinavian spirits. The resulting meal was edible, which I consider a triumph, though the kitchen looked like we'd hosted a small but enthusiastic riot. My partner photographed the chaos for posterity, or possibly evidence.

What struck me most was how the food anchored us in the place. Each slightly disastrous cooking attempt, each excellent pub discovery, each overpriced market purchase I absolutely didn't need, became part of the holiday's texture. I arrived thinking I'd master Danish cuisine through sheer enthusiasm. I left having mostly mastered the art of knowing when to stop pretending and simply enjoy what others could do better.

The final evening found us back at that first pub, me with another architectural pork dish, my partner with something sensibly fish-based. We raised glasses to my navigational failure, my culinary hubris, and the general magnificent foolishness of holidays. Some things, I've learned, are best left to professionals. Finding the property, for one. Cooking, frequently. But the trying of things, the slightly burnt, slightly misguided, absolutely genuine trying, that I think I'll keep attempting. Just perhaps with better directions next time.