I have never been so relieved to see a car park in my life. After six hours of driving from Esbjerg, convinced my sat nav had developed a personal vendetta against me, I finally rolled up to Sønderborg Strand on the island of Als. The mishap? I had spent the last forty-five minutes frantically searching for my booking confirmation, only to discover I had been sitting on it. Literally. It was printed on A4 and had somehow wedged itself beneath my left thigh for the entire journey across Jutland. I am not saying I am disorganised, but I am saying I should probably look down more often.

First impressions of the place, though? Absolutely worth the chaos. The holiday home sits right on the water, that classic Danish coastal setup where you half expect to see someone cycling past with a crate of Tuborg strapped to their handlebars. The smell hit me first, that briny, seaweed-y freshness that makes you instantly hungry. This was going to be a problem, because I had arrived with grand plans to cook properly for once in my life.

The kitchen at Sønderborg Strand is genuinely decent, which immediately made me feel guilty about my usual repertoire of beans on toast. I had brought a Danish cookbook I found in a charity shop, determined to embrace local cuisine. My first evening, I attempted stegt flæsk, that iconic crispy pork dish. Let us just say the smoke alarm and I became very well acquainted. The pork was... educational. The crackling had the texture of gravel, and I ended up eating pickled red cabbage straight from the jar while standing at the open window, wafting a tea towel like a man possessed. The local seagulls seemed appreciative of my failures at least.

Morning number two, I admitted defeat and wandered into Sønderborg proper, about ten minutes along the coast. Found myself at a bakery where I pointed hopefully at something that turned out to be tebirkes, those poppy seed pastries that leave you looking like you have been in a fight with a pepper mill. Worth it though. The butter was so good I briefly considered moving to Denmark permanently.

The harbour area became my stomping ground. There is a fishmonger there, nothing fancy, just a bloke called Henrik who clearly thought my attempts at Danish were hilarious. I bought smoked herring, still slightly intimidated, and some local brown shrimp. Back at the cottage, I made the only sensible decision: I did not cook them at all. Just peeled those shrimp with a beer in hand, watching the light change over the water, feeling terribly pleased with myself. Sometimes the best meal preparation is no preparation whatsoever.

I did find a pub, or the Danish equivalent anyway, tucked down a side street near the castle. Not flashy, just dark wood and locals who tolerated my presence with that particular Scandinavian politeness. Had an akvavit that nearly took my eyebrows off. The barmaid recommended I chase it with beer, which felt like excellent life advice in general. We got talking about food, as you do, and she told me about the Thursday market in the town square. I marked it in my phone with three exclamation marks, which tells you everything about my priorities.

That market was glorious chaos. Stalls of local potatoes that actually tasted of something, cheeses I could not pronounce, sausages that snapped when you bit them. I bought far too much, as always, and spent the afternoon attempting to assemble a Danish-style smorrebrod situation on the cottage decking. My creations were structurally unsound, toppings sliding off rye bread like they were trying to escape my incompetence, but eaten with a cold pilsner and the sound of waves? Perfection.

One evening I treated myself to dinner at a proper restaurant on the waterfront, nothing molecular or trendy, just good honest cooking. Had plaice so fresh it basically introduced itself, with new potatoes and a butter sauce I wanted to write poetry about. The waiter caught me mopping the plate with bread and smiled in that way that said he had seen worse. Probably.

My final morning, I attempted one last heroic cooking effort. Danish pancakes, the thin ones, with the market berries I had wisely frozen. They came out acceptable. Not round, not elegant, but acceptable. I ate them in my pyjamas on the little terrace, watching a heron stalk through the shallows, feeling that particular melancholy of holidays ending.

I left Sønderborg Strand with a slightly tighter waistband, a new appreciation for not cooking fish at all, and the certain knowledge that next time I would check my backside for important documents before setting off. Some lessons take longer to learn than others.