I have always believed that the true measure of a holiday is not the view from the bedroom window but the state of your stomach by the end of it. So when my partner and I set off for a week in Marielyst on Falster, Denmark, I packed an empty suitcase specifically for edible souvenirs and a pair of trousers with an elasticated waist. I was not messing about.

The journey from Copenhagen started well enough. Smooth train to Nykobing Falster, sunny skies, the works. Then came the bus to Marielyst, during which I became so engrossed in a packet of liquorice allsorts that I failed to notice our stop. We ended up in what I can only describe as a car park adjacent to a miniature golf course, surrounded by enthusiastic Danish families wielding putters. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "you and your snacks" look. We walked twenty minutes back to the holiday home with me muttering about inadequate signage and the universal treachery of foreign confectionery.

The property itself was a tidy wooden affair, all blonde timber and sensible Danish design. But my eyes went straight to the kitchen. Compact, yes, but properly equipped. I immediately began planning elaborate meals that would require approximately three times the local supermarket's entire stock. My partner suggested we perhaps visit that supermarket first before I committed to a seven-course seafood banquet.

Marielyst's main strip, when we found it, turned out to be a cheerful jumble of ice cream parlours, bike hire shops, and the occasional pub with outdoor seating. We lunched at a place called something unpronounceable with a terrace overlooking the dunes. I ordered smorrebrod because when in Rome, and received an open-faced herring arrangement so architecturally ambitious it deserved its own planning permission. The herring gazed up at me with what I chose to interpret as approval. It was magnificent. My partner had a prawn sandwich the size of a small cushion. We drank Danish beer and watched children charge about with ice creams larger than their heads.

That evening, armed with misplaced confidence, I attempted to recreate the smorrebrod experience in our holiday kitchen. I had purchased rye bread, various pickled things, and a quantity of smoked fish that seemed reasonable at the time. The result was less "authentic Danish dining" and more "aggressive fish platter arranged by someone with no spatial awareness." My partner was kind about it. She is always kind. She is also very good at suggesting we perhaps try a pub for dinner tomorrow, which we did.

The local pub, tucked down a lane near the beach, was exactly the sort of place I hoped for. Low beams, friendly muttering, a barmaid who tolerated my pointing-and-smiling ordering technique. We ate frikadeller with red cabbage and potatoes, proper comfort food, while a dog of indeterminate breed slept beneath a neighbouring table. I attempted to discuss Danish football with a local gentleman who spoke approximately four words of English. We bonded over mutual shrugging and enthusiastic hand gestures.

Wednesday brought the Marielyst market, a modest affair in a village square that nonetheless yielded excellent cheese, some alarming-looking sausages, and a jar of honey that I am still working through six months later. I bought too much, as is my way. We ate bread and cheese on our little terrace for lunch, watching cyclists trundle past in that purposeful Danish manner.

By Thursday I had accepted my limitations. Rather than attempting further culinary heroics, we embraced a routine of simple breakfasts at the property, market lunches, and pub evenings. We found a second place, slightly further along the coast, that did excellent fish and chips with a Danish twist. I am still not entirely certain what the twist was. Possibly remoulade. Possibly just the general atmosphere of competence and contentment.

On our final morning, I made pancakes with the remaining eggs and some questionable milk. They were adequate. My partner declared them the best pancakes she had ever eaten, which I recognised as the lie it was and appreciated nonetheless. We packed our bags, our honey, and several packets of liquorice for the journey home. I checked the bus timetable three times. We caught the correct stop, which I considered personal growth.

I returned from Marielyst slightly heavier, considerably happier, and with a renewed appreciation for leaving certain culinary traditions to the professionals. The elasticated trousers had been the correct choice after all.