I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I forgot to pack the bloody Sat Nav charger. There we were, halfway across Jutland, my phone gasping its last breath at four percent, me frantically squinting at road signs for Djursland while my partner muttered something about "this is why we can't have nice things." The funny bit? We'd stopped at a service station specifically to buy a charger, got distracted by a frankly outrageous Danish pastry display, and walked out with two cinnamon swirls and a coffee but no cable. Priorities, I suppose.

We limped into Oer Strand on fumes and blind hope, spotting the little cluster of white holiday homes just as my phone finally surrendered. The key was in a lockbox, which required a code, which was on my phone. Cue ten minutes of me doing a sort of desperate interpretive dance around the property until a kindly neighbour took pity and let us use her landline to call the letting company. I have never felt more British in my life.

But then we opened the door, and honestly? The pastry debacle faded fast. The place smelled of pine and salt air, that particular Scandinavian cleanliness that makes you immediately want to take your shoes off. The kitchen, though. That kitchen was the star. Proper oven, decent hob, and a view straight over the Kattegat that made washing up feel almost spiritual. Almost.

We'd arrived on a Saturday, which in Djursland means one thing: the Grenaa market, a mere ten-minute drive if you haven't alienated your phone. We went Sunday instead, slightly dishevelled, and I made straight for the fish stalls. Fresh plaice, still twitching practically, and these beautiful little shrimp that the vendor insisted we eat raw with nothing but brown bread and butter. My partner pulled a face. I ate her portion. No regrets.

That first evening, we attempted to cook like locals. I had grand visions of a seafood feast, something that would make the Danes nod approvingly and perhaps invite me to join their hygge council. Reality: I overcooked the plaice into something resembling a beige flip-flop, while the potatoes took on the texture of small pebbles. We ate it anyway, sitting at the little wooden table with the sliding doors open to the sea, drinking supermarket wine that cost too much and tasted of absolutely nothing. It was magnificent.

The local pub situation in Djursland is not what you'd call bustling. We found a place in Grenaa, nothing fancy, just a low-beamed room where an elderly chap was drinking his lunch and the barmaid spoke better English than I do. I ordered a pint of something local and unpronounceable, and a "smorrebrod" that arrived as an architectural feat of rye bread, pickled herring, and egg. The egg was slightly warm. The herring was not. I ate three and spent the afternoon in a contented, slightly briny haze.

Back at Oer Strand, we developed a routine. Mornings: strong coffee and whatever we'd foraged from the previous day's market. The baker in Grenaa did these cardamom buns that ruined all other pastries for me permanently. Lunches: attempts at cooking that improved marginally with each try. I mastered the shrimp, finally, poaching them gently with dill and serving with that dense, seeded bread that the Danes do so well. Dinners: sometimes proper efforts, sometimes just cheese and crackers with too much wine, eaten on the little terrace as the light went flat and silver over the water.

There was a supermarket, not far, where I became embarrassingly familiar with the crisp aisle. Danish crisps are different, somehow. Thicker, more earnest. I bought many. We also discovered remoulade, which I initially thought was tartare sauce having an identity crisis, but which I now miss with a puzzling intensity.

One evening, feeling ambitious, I attempted to recreate a fish soup we'd had in town. The recipe involved fennel, which I couldn't find, so I used celery and hope. The result was... educational. We ate it on the sofa, wrapped in blankets because I'd opened all the windows to dispel the celery-fish fug, and laughed until my ribs hurt. That's the thing about self-catering, isn't it? The disasters become the stories. The slightly warm herring, the beige plaice, the great celery incident of 2024.

We found another pub, further along the coast, where they did simple grilled fish with lemon and nothing else, and I realised that all my kitchen ambition was rather missing the point. The best meal we had was there, barely seasoned, with a view of fishing boats and a beer so cold it hurt my teeth. I stopped trying to cook like a Dane and just started buying what looked good, eating it simply, letting the ingredients do the work.

On our last morning, I made proper coffee and sat outside with one final cardamom bun, watching a heron stand motionless in the shallow water. The kitchen behind me was a minor disaster of crumbs and unwashed pans. We'd eaten so well, and so badly, and so memorably. The phone charger sat in the car, still in its service station packaging, unopened. Some things, it turns out, you simply don't need.