I have never been so relieved to see a set of wooden steps in my life. After four hours of driving from Copenhagen, two wrong turns near Nykobing Falster, and one spectacular argument with a sat nav that insisted Danish country lanes were "major roads," I finally crunched onto the gravel drive of Kongsnaes. The mishap? I had spent the last twenty minutes confidently approaching the wrong holiday home further up the coast, knocking politely, and wondering why the key box refused to open. The elderly German couple who answered were terribly polite about it. I was less polite to myself.

Kongsnaes sits tucked among pine trees with proper Danish restraint, all clean lines and enormous windows facing the Guldborgsund. My first thought, once I stopped blushing, was that the kitchen would need immediate attention. I had grand plans for my stay, and they revolved almost entirely around what I might eat.

The property's kitchen turned out to be a serious piece of equipment, which immediately exposed my own inadequacy. I stood before the induction hob like a man confronting a spacecraft console, having spent the previous decade making do with a temperamental electric ring in a London flat. There was a proper oven, a dishwasher I initially loaded backwards, and enough counter space to stage a small banquet. I had packed three cookbooks and a jar of Marmite, which felt increasingly misguided.

My first evening demanded a reconnaissance mission to Nykobing Falster's supermarkets, which I had researched with the intensity of a military operation. The Fakta and SuperBrugsen on Slotsgade did not disappoint. I returned with rugbrod that I immediately ruined by toasting it, spegepolse that I ate standing at the counter like a thief, and a lump of marbled pork whose purpose I only vaguely understood. The local cheese selection at SuperBrugsen prompted an embarrassing level of indecision; I stood before the chilled cabinet for so long that a helpful teenager asked if I needed medical assistance.

By evening I had attempted a Danish-inspired supper of pork, red cabbage from a jar, and boiled potatoes that dissolved into something between mash and soup. I ate it on the decking with a glass of supermarket wine, watching the light fade across the water, and felt genuinely pleased with myself despite everything. The gulls were unimpressed. I was unbothered.

The following morning brought proper exploration of local eating possibilities. Nykobing's weekly market on Axeltorv operates Wednesdays and Saturdays, and I arrived early with empty bags and ambitious intentions. The fishmonger sold fresh herring and smoked mackerel from Stubbekobing that made my London supermarket offerings seem like a category error. I bought both, plus new potatoes still dusted with soil, and tomatoes that actually smelled of something. An elderly woman selling homemade elderflower cordial took pity on my pronunciation and gave me an extra bottle after I mangled the word for "delicious" so badly she may have thought I was having a medical episode.

For proper sustenance without my own interference, I discovered Cafe Guldanden near the harbour, where I ate smorrebrod that demonstrated how completely I had been failing at bread-based construction. The herring was pickled to sharp perfection, the egg sliced with mathematical precision, and the butter applied with a generosity I had never dared attempt. I ate two, then considered a third with the abandon of a man whose trousers were already unforgiving.

The local pubs required similar investigation. Bodegaen on Brogade provided the traditional Danish experience I had craved, all dark wood and Tuborg and regulars who regarded me with the tolerant suspicion reserved for obvious holidaymakers. I ordered a snaps with my beer, which the barman poured without comment, and spent twenty minutes building the courage to drink it. The resulting facial expression, I was told later, was visible from the street.

Back at Kongsnaes, my cooking gradually improved through stubborn repetition. I mastered the hob, learned that rugbrod requires no toasting, and produced a fish supper using my market purchases that I would actually serve to another human. The kitchen became my evening headquarters, radio playing Danish pop I did not understand, wine glass refilled with increasing confidence, the view through those enormous windows darkening to black except for the distant lights of boats passing through the sound.

My final morning, I attempted proper Danish pastries using ingredients from a bakery in Nykobing whose name I never properly learned. The attempt was catastrophic. The kitchen looked as though flour had been distributed by explosive device. I ate the results anyway, sitting on those wooden steps where I had first arrived, and reflected that competence had never really been the point. The Marmite remained unopened. Some things, I decided, were better left as luggage.