I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put the postcode into my sat nav and it directed me to a field full of very confused sheep. Three hours of driving from Esbjerg, two ferry crossings worth of patience, and there I was, arguing with technology in front of an audience of livestock who couldn't have cared less. Turns out I'd typed one digit wrong. Classic me. The actual Vibaek Strand was another twenty minutes east, tucked along the coast of Djursland where the Kattegat Sea does its gentle, grey thing against the shore.

By the time I found the proper turnoff, my stomach had started making noises that would have embarrassed the sheep. The cottage itself was a proper Scandinavian affair, all clean lines and enormous windows that seemed to laugh at my attempts to keep them fingerprint-free. I dumped my bags, made a beeline for the kitchen, and discovered the previous guests had left behind a single jar of pickled herring and what I desperately hoped was dill. The fridge was otherwise empty. The nearest supermarket was a Coop in Grenaa, twenty minutes away, and it was already half past six. I ate the herring straight from the jar with a fork, standing at the counter like a man defeated by his own poor planning. It was actually rather good, in a vinegary, punch-to-the-sinuses sort of way.

The next morning I drove into Grenaa properly, determined to do this holiday eating thing properly. The fish market down by the harbour was already winding down, but I managed to snag some fresh plaice from a chap who spoke exactly three words of English and communicated mostly through vigorous hand gestures. I took this as a challenge. Back at the cottage, I attempted to pan-fry my prize with butter and lemon, following a YouTube video on my phone with the confidence of a man who absolutely should have paid more attention. The smoke alarm had opinions. The plaice was edible, barely, though I suspect the local seagulls would have done a more competent job. I ate it on the little wooden deck, watching a Danish family on the neighbouring plot barbecue with the effortless expertise of people who have never set off a smoke alarm in their lives.

That evening I gave up on my culinary ambitions and walked to the nearest pub, a modest place in a village whose name I still can't pronounce. The barman understood my pointing well enough, and I ended up with a Tuborg and something called smorrebrod that was essentially an open sandwich architected by someone with strong feelings about rye bread and remoulade. It was magnificent. I had another. The locals were friendly in that reserved, slightly puzzled way that makes you wonder if you've accidentally committed some obscure cultural faux pas. Possibly I had. Possibly I was meant to eat the smorrebrod with a knife and fork rather than my hands, folded in half like an overambitious taco. Nobody said anything. The Danes are too polite for that.

By day three I'd established a routine. Morning trip to Grenaa for supplies, afternoon attempt at cooking something that wouldn't trigger the smoke alarm, evening walk to the pub for professional intervention. I discovered a bakery that did proper Danish pastries, the kind that make you understand why they kept the name. I bought too many. I ate them all. The cottage kitchen saw me attempt frikadeller, those little meatballs that are apparently a national institution. Mine resembled sad, grey golf balls. The local butcher, when I went back for moral support and more pork mince, laughed openly and sold me some pre-made ones "for comparison." His were better. Obviously.

The pub became my evening salvation. They did a decent fish soup, thick with cream and dill, which I suspect was their way of using up whatever the boats brought in. I didn't mind. There was something deeply comforting about sitting there with my bowl and my beer, watching the light fade over the water, listening to conversations I couldn't understand. The barman started recognising me, greeting me with a nod that felt like acceptance. I never did learn his name. I never asked.

On my final morning I made one last attempt at breakfast, frying eggs with the confidence of someone who had absolutely not learned his lesson. They were fine. They were eggs. I ate them on the deck, packed my bags, and paused for a moment to watch the sea do its thing. The sheep incident felt like weeks ago. I'd come expecting dramatic landscapes and perhaps some personal transformation, and instead I'd found quiet mornings, questionable cooking, and the particular joy of a well-made sandwich in a pub whose name I couldn't pronounce. It was enough. It was more than enough, really. I drove away already planning what I'd eat on my return, which is perhaps the highest compliment a holiday can receive.