I have always believed that the true measure of a holiday begins not with the view from your window, but with what you manage to put on your plate. My recent trip to a little place called Oer Strand in East Jutland put this theory to the test rather spectacularly.

The journey from Aarhus Airport started well enough. I had done my research, or so I thought. Armed with a handwritten list of Danish food words and the confidence of someone who once successfully ordered a croissant in Paris, I stopped at a supermarket in Ebeltoft to stock up. This is where the mishap occurred. I had intended to buy what I believed was a nice piece of pork for our first dinner. What I actually purchased, after some enthusiastic pointing and nodding, was a hefty lump of salted gammon so intensely preserved it could have survived a Viking voyage. The checkout assistant tried to warn me, I think, but I had already committed to my performance as a competent adult. I smiled, paid, and marched out with enough salt pork to preserve a small village.

Back at the holiday home, the kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped. Proper knives, decent pans, even a coffee maker that looked like it meant business. I stood there with my enormous pink brick of pig and felt the first stirrings of doubt. My partner, ever supportive, suggested we just slice it thin and fry it like bacon. Reader, we tried. The resulting slabs were so salty that we spent the rest of the evening drinking water like camels who had spotted an oasis. It was not my finest culinary hour.

The next morning, defeated but determined, we walked to the local harbour area. There is something wonderfully honest about Danish coastal towns in the off-season. No pretence, no performance, just boats and the smell of the Kattegat and people getting on with things. We found a small fishmonger selling freshly caught herring and something called "spegesild" which I later learned is pickled herring. I bought both, plus some dense rye bread from a bakery nearby. This was more like it. The herring was silvery and perfect, the rye bread nutty and substantial. I ate it standing by the water, feeling rather pleased with myself, as if I had personally wrestled the fish from the sea.

That evening, properly humbled by my salt pork disaster, I attempted a simpler approach. The holiday home had a proper Danish kitchen, so I made a straightforward meal of boiled potatoes, the fresh herring, and a butter sauce with dill from a small pot I found on the windowsill. Someone before us had clearly understood the assignment. It was simple and good in a way that complicated cooking rarely achieves.

We ventured to Ebeltoft proper the following day, drawn by the promise of its cobbled streets and, more honestly, by my need for a proper pub meal. We found a place near the old town hall, nothing fancy, just wooden tables and local beer on tap. I ordered "stegt flaesk" because I recognised the word for pork and felt I owed the animal some respect after my earlier failure. It arrived as crispy strips of belly with parsley sauce and potatoes, unapologetically heavy and absolutely delicious. The beer was a local pilsner, cold and slightly bitter, the perfect cutting edge to all that richness.

The holiday home's proximity to the water meant we could walk off these meals along the shore, which we did most evenings. There is a particular light in East Jutland at dusk, soft and horizontal, that makes everything look slightly golden and forgiving. Even my salt pork error seemed amusing rather than embarrassing in that light.

On our final day, we discovered a small market near the harbour, more of a gathering of locals selling things from tables than anything formal. I bought honey, some rather excellent cheese, and a jar of something red and unidentifiable that turned out to be a sort of currant compote. We ate these treasures for lunch with fresh bread, sitting on the holiday home's terrace, watching the water.

I never did master Danish cooking. But I learned that East Jutland rewards simplicity, good ingredients, and the humility to admit when you have accidentally bought enough preserved meat to survive a siege. The kitchen at Oer Strand saw my failures and my small victories, and I left with a fuller stomach and a slightly better understanding of when to ask for help at the supermarket checkout.