I have to admit, the drive to Oer Strand did not begin auspiciously. Having proudly loaded the car with what I believed to be a meticulously planned week's worth of groceries, I managed to leave the entire cool bag on the kitchen table in Aarhus. Discovered this forty minutes down the road, naturally, at the precise moment my stomach began rumbling in protest. There is a particular flavour of self-knowledge that comes from sitting in a stationary car outside a Netto, Googling whether Danish supermarkets accept British cards, whilst questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

The cottage itself, when we finally arrived, proved worth every minor indignity. Oer Strand sits on one of those understated Danish coastlines that does not shout but rather murmurs persuasively. Wooden cladding, slightly weathered, the sort that makes you feel immediately that bacon sandwiches and strong coffee are the only appropriate responses. My first act upon entry was to inspect the kitchen with the intensity of a health inspector. The stove: electric, predictable. The knives: actually sharp, a holiday miracle. The pots: numerous enough to accommodate my ambitions.

Ambitions which, I should clarify, had swollen considerably during the drive. Bereft of my planned ingredients, I had instead purchased whatever looked promising at that roadside Netto. This is how I came to stand in a strange kitchen at half past six, clutching a packet of something labelled in Danish that I later discovered was pickled herring, attempting to construct a meal that felt intentional rather than desperate.

The first evening, we walked to the nearest village pub, which I shall not name precisely because I cannot pronounce it properly and because some places deserve their modest anonymity. It occupied that perfect Danish territory between proper pub and casual restaurant, all dark wood and candles in jars. I ordered a smorrebrod, because when in Rome, and received an open-faced construction of rye bread, pickled vegetables, and roast pork that required both hands and considerable concentration. My partner fared better with a straightforward burger, which arrived with a dignity that British pub burgers rarely achieve. The beer was local, from somewhere in East Jutland, and tasted of the sort of careful brewing that comes from people who have nothing to prove.

We returned to the cottage with full stomachs and a renewed determination to cook properly the next day. This led to the Tuesday market in Ebeltoft, which is precisely the sort of market that ruins you for supermarkets forever. I spent an embarrassing amount of time at a cheese stall, sampling varieties I could not name, nodding seriously as the vendor explained ageing processes in Danish that I pretended to understand. We left with a wheel of something creamy, a loaf of sourdough that actually tasted of sourdough, and sausages that snapped satisfyingly when cooked.

That evening's attempt at a proper Danish-inspired meal went better than expected, though I did set off the smoke alarm trying to achieve proper crackling on the pork. The windows were opened, the neighbours presumably entertained, and we ate on the small terrace as the light faded slowly over the water. There is something about eating outside in Denmark, even when the temperature suggests you should not, that feels correct and slightly defiant.

The remainder of the week developed a comfortable rhythm. Mornings began with coffee and whatever pastry we had acquired the previous day, eaten while staring at the sea and pretending this was our actual life. Lunches were simple affairs, assembled from market remnants and whatever vegetables looked promising. Dinners became increasingly ambitious as my confidence grew, though I never quite mastered the herring situation.

We found another pub, closer to the water, where the fish and chips were made with plaice rather than cod and came with remoulade that I initially resisted and then could not stop eating. The bartender, encountering our faltering Danish with good humour, switched to English that was frankly better than mine, and recommended a local aquavit that I sampled once and decided was an acquired taste I had not yet acquired.

The final evening, we cooked everything remaining in the cottage, creating what I can only describe as a Nordic-inspired fridge-clearing banquet. It was imperfect, slightly chaotic, and absolutely delicious. We ate slowly, drank the last of the wine, and acknowledged that leaving the cool bag behind had been, in its strange way, the best mistake of the holiday.