We had been on the road for what felt like fourteen hours but was probably closer to four when I realised, with the sort of sinking feeling that only comes from absolute certainty, that I had left the entire bag of groceries on the kitchen table back in Copenhagen. Not just any groceries, mind you. This was my carefully curated selection of Danish cheeses, that posh rye bread I had been banging on about for weeks, and a rather expensive bottle of snaps that I had convinced myself was essential for the full Falster experience. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says "I love you but also how are you this person."

Still, we pressed on through the flat Danish countryside, past endless fields and the occasional wind turbine doing its slow, meditative spin. Marielyst revealed itself gradually, a proper little seaside settlement with that particular hush that coastal places have in late spring. Our cottage sat tucked among similar wooden houses, all very hygge, very purposeful. I immediately forgave myself the grocery disaster because the kitchen, I noted with relief, looked genuinely cookable. Not one of those holiday kitchens where the knives have apparently been used previously for gardening.

The first evening demanded improvisation. We wandered down toward the harbour area, that particular stretch where the fishing boats come in and the smokehouses do their work. I had heard about Marielyst's smoked fish, the proper traditional stuff, and found a small place where an elderly chap was selling kippers and cold-smoked mackerel from a counter that looked older than both of us combined. We bought far too much, plus some dense rye bread from a bakery that was closing up, and made a picnic supper back at the cottage. The mackerel was sensational, oily and rich, and we ate it with our fingers like absolute animals while drinking mediocre white wine from plastic cups. I have rarely been happier.

The following morning revealed the local supermarket situation, which in Marielyst is essentially a single decent-sized Dagli'Brugsen where I spent an embarrassing amount of time marvelling at Danish dairy products. I bought milk that was somehow creamier than ours, butter that actually tasted of something, and eggs with the most gloriously orange yolks I have ever cracked into a pan. My attempt at a traditional Danish breakfast spread was ambitious and, I will admit, partially unsuccessful. The leverpostej I purchased looked correct but tasted more aggressively liverish than I had anticipated. My partner took one polite bite and retreated to the rye bread and cheese. I ate my mistake with stubborn determination, accompanied by several cups of very strong coffee.

Lunch became our great expedition. We found a pub near the beach, one of those unpretentious Danish places that serves straightforward food to straightforward people. I ordered a smorrebrod with pickled herring, expecting something delicate and received something roughly the size of a paperback book. The herring was sweet and sharp, the onions raw and punchy, the butter underneath indecently thick. It defeated me completely. I sat there, half a open-faced sandwich in hand, genuinely contemplating whether this was a meal or a personal challenge. The local beer helped. It always helps.

By our third day I had developed a minor obsession with the fish market that operates near the harbour on certain mornings. I woke early, earlier than I do for most employment obligations, to secure the best of whatever was coming off the boats. The cod looked beautiful, almost luminous, and I bought enough to feed six with the confidence of a person who absolutely could not cook for six. Back at the cottage I attempted a proper Danish fish soup, fumbling with dill and attempting to make a broth that did not taste of boiled disappointment. It was, by my own generous assessment, acceptable. My partner called it "interesting" which in our shared language means "I appreciate the effort more than the result."

The pub evenings became our ritual. There was one particular place, nothing fancy, where the barman remembered our order from the previous night and asked about my cooking experiments with what I choose to believe was genuine interest rather than mockery. We ate fried plaice there, proper Danish style with remoulade and lemon, and drank more of that excellent local beer. Someone at the next table was celebrating something with snaps, and the sound of cheerful Danish toasting drifted over. I felt briefly like an impostor, then simply like someone having a very good time in a very good place.

My final cooking attempt was breakfast on our last morning. I had mastered, or at least reached an accommodation with, the local eggs and butter. The bacon was different from home, meatier somehow, and I fried it slowly while my partner set the table with the serious attention she gives to all domestic tasks. We ate in the small garden behind the cottage, the Danish spring doing its best impression of actual warmth, and I thought about how holidays work on you gradually. The forgotten groceries, the overambitious liver paste, the defeated herring. They become the story more than any perfect meal could.

We stopped at the smokehouse one last time before driving back, buying vacuum-packed fish to take home and probably ruin by freezing incorrectly. I did not care. The bag sat on my lap for the journey, smelling faintly of oak and the sea, and I planned elaborate meals I would probably never cook. That is the particular magic of holiday food, I think. It exists perfectly in the planning, in the attempt, in the cheerful failures you eat anyway because you are hungry and happy and somewhere that is not home.