I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong beach house. There we were, me and my partner, standing on the decking at Saksild Strand with a key code that simply refused to cooperate, jiggling the handle like a pair of incompetent burglars, until a kindly Danish woman in the neighbouring property gently pointed out we were one door down. The correct house was, of course, identical in every way except for the small matter of it actually being ours. We laughed, she laughed, the seagulls definitely laughed, and I made a mental note to check the house number next time rather than confidently striding towards the first bit of wood panning I spotted.

The drive from Aarhus had been straightforward enough, a pleasant forty minutes through rolling farmland and past those impossibly tidy Danish villages where every house looks like it has been pressure-washed that morning. But by the time we finally tumbled through the proper front door, we were absolutely ravenous. The kitchen at Saksild Strand turned out to be surprisingly well-equipped, which was just as well because our first evening's grand plan of a quick supermarket dash had been somewhat derailed by our directional confusion. We made do with the emergency supplies we had brought: pasta, a jar of questionable pesto, and some bread that had seen better days. I attempted to elevate this into something respectable with a bit of dried oregano and sheer force of will. My partner was polite about it. The seagulls, had they been invited, would probably have been less so.

The following morning, properly fed after a decent breakfast of rye bread and cheese from the little Meny supermarket in Odder, we set about exploring the local food scene with the enthusiasm of people who had nearly starved twelve hours previously. Saksild itself is not exactly a culinary metropolis, but that is rather the point of these quiet coastal spots. We walked along the beach, worked up an appetite, and then drove the short distance to Odder proper to investigate what was on offer.

The weekly market in Odder proved to be a delightfully low-key affair, the sort where you can actually chat to the people selling you things without being jostled by crowds. We came away with fresh asparagus, some excellent smoked fish, and a rather potent cheese that we later realised needed to be approached with considerable respect. That evening's attempt at cooking was considerably more successful. I grilled the fish with some of the asparagus, made a proper effort with a butter sauce that did not split for once, and we ate on the little terrace watching the light fade over the water. There is something about cooking on holiday that makes even modest efforts feel like genuine achievements, perhaps because the usual standards have been temporarily suspended.

We did venture out to a couple of local pubs during our stay, though calling them pubs feels slightly misleading as they are very much Danish in character. There is a place in Odder, nothing fancy, just a straightforward local spot with a decent selection of beers and the kind of hearty, unpretentious food that absolutely hits the spot after a day of beach walking and mild getting-lost incidents. I had a traditional Danish open sandwich, the smorrebrod, which I had always thought of as essentially a fancy bit of bread but which, done properly, is a genuinely satisfying meal. My partner went for a burger, which I suppose is not particularly Danish, but we were on holiday and these things happen.

One afternoon we attempted to recreate the smorrebrod experience back at the house, which involved a trip to a local bakery for proper rye bread and then a lengthy debate about what constituted appropriate toppings. I went traditional with pickled herring, my partner rebelled with something involving chicken and bacon. Both were acceptable, though I maintain mine was more authentic, and authenticity is clearly what matters when you are eating lunch in your holiday kitchen wearing flip-flops.

The nearest proper restaurant we found was down towards the coast, nothing spectacular but reliable, serving straightforward Danish food with a bit of seafood emphasis as you would expect. We had a pleasant evening there, though I will admit to a slight wobble when I saw the prices, Denmark not being known for its budget dining. Still, the fish was fresh, the beer was cold, and we were on holiday, so we swallowed the bill along with our pride and decided not to mention it again.

By the end of the week, our cooking had improved markedly, or perhaps we had simply lowered our expectations sufficiently. We had mastered the local breakfast of various breads and cheeses, could assemble a respectable packed lunch for beach days, and had even attempted a Danish pastry from scratch one ambitious morning. The pastry was, if I am honest, not entirely successful, resembling something between a croissant and a small cushion, but we ate it anyway because we had invested two hours of our lives in its creation.

What struck me most about eating at Saksild Strand was how the simplicity of the place shaped everything. Without the distraction of a bustling food scene, you find yourself paying more attention to what you are actually eating, where it came from, whether you have cooked it properly. It is not a destination for culinary adventure in the conventional sense, but it is a place to slow down and remember that good food does not need to be complicated, just prepared with a bit of care and eaten in pleasant company. And perhaps with a small side of self-deprecating humour about your various kitchen mishaps, of which there were several, though the seagulls by this point had mercifully lost interest.