I have never been brilliant with directions, and my journey to our little holiday let in Gjerrild proved this beyond all doubt. The sat nav confidently sent me down what I can only describe as a farm track masquerading as a road, and before I knew it I was nose-to-nose with a very patient man on a tractor who looked at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for lost tourists. Turns out I had missed the turning by a good half mile. Twenty minutes of reversing and muttering later, I finally pulled up outside the cottage, slightly sweaty but triumphant, already dreaming of whatever supper I could cobble together.

The cottage itself was proper Danish countryside charm, all clean lines and that wonderful hygge feeling the moment you stepped through the door. But my priorities were firmly elsewhere. I dumped the bags, made a cup of tea that tasted like victory, and started planning my assault on the local food scene. The kitchen was smart and modern, which was just as well given what was about to happen.

Gjerrild itself is not exactly sprawling metropolis territory, but that is half the point. The village has a decent little supermarket where I stocked up on rye bread, proper Danish butter, and some local cheese that the woman behind the counter recommended with the enthusiasm of someone describing a religious experience. I also grabbed some smoked fish, because when in Rome, or rather when in Djursland. My first evening was meant to be a simple affair, just assembling things on plates with a bit of salad and pretending this counted as cooking. It did not, but it tasted grand all the same.

The following morning I attempted proper Danish pastries for breakfast, having picked some up from a bakery in Grenaa the previous afternoon. I say attempted because I made the rookie error of putting them in a warm oven to freshen up and promptly forgot about them. What emerged was something between a croissant and charcoal. I ate the salvaged bits standing at the kitchen window, watching the garden birds and reflecting on my many failings as a domestic goddess. The coffee was excellent though, strong and dark, which helped me face my shame.

Lunch became my salvation. I discovered a brilliant little fishmonger not far away, selling the freshest herring I have ever encountered. I bought far too much, naturally, and spent a happy hour back at the cottage making my own smorrebrod, piling rye bread high with herring, pickles, and dill. It was messy, it was probably inauthentic, and it was absolutely delicious. I ate three and had to have a little lie down afterwards.

The pub situation required investigation, obviously. There is a decent local spot where I ended up more than once, drawn by the promise of cold beer and straightforward Danish cooking. The first night I went, I ordered stegt flaesk purely because I liked the sound of it, and found myself presented with crispy pork belly, potatoes, and parsley sauce that was comfort on a plate. The barman spoke better English than I do and was kind enough not to laugh at my pronunciation attempts.

I did try cooking properly one evening, attempting a fish stew with local ingredients. It was going well until I got overconfident with the aquavit I had bought as a cooking addition. A little went in the pot, rather more went in me, and the resulting stew was perhaps more spirited than intended. I ate it anyway, feeling very pleased with myself, and woke the next morning with a headache that made me deeply suspicious of my own culinary methods.

The local market in Grenaa became my weekend highlight, a proper bustling affair where I bought more cheese than any reasonable person needs, some excellent sausages, and bread that actually made my supermarket efforts look pathetic. I spent a small fortune and regretted nothing.

By the end of the week, my relationship with the cottage kitchen had matured from nervous acquaintance to comfortable friendship. I was still no great chef, but I had learned to respect good ingredients and keep things simple. The local eating had been magnificent, from proper pub grub to my own wonky attempts, and I left Gjerrild with my waistline expanded and my spirit thoroughly content. Some holidays are about sights and monuments; mine was about fish, pork, and the slow realisation that I should probably never be trusted with pastries and an oven.