I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I trusted Google Maps over my own common sense. There I was, barrelling down a farm track in Funen with a boot full of shopping, convinced I was taking a shortcut to Hasmark Strand. The shortcut turned out to be someone's private drive, and I very nearly introduced my Renault to a rather unimpressed-looking goat. The goat won. I reversed three hundred metres of rutted mud with the dignity of a man who has made poor life choices, finally arriving at the cottage red-faced and already in need of a stiff drink.

The cottage itself, when I finally found the proper entrance, was an absolute charmer. Proper Danish coastal style, all pale wood and big windows looking out towards the Kattegat. But I barely glanced at the view. My first priority was the kitchen, because I had grand plans and a bag full of ambition from the Odense farmers' market that morning.

I'd got slightly carried away at that market. Slightly. There were these little stalls with smoked fish that smelled like proper old-school preservation, not the supermarket stuff, and I'd bought enough herring to feed a small village. Plus some local cheese that the woman warned me was "quite strong," which in Danish apparently means "will strip paint." I also picked up new potatoes still dusty with soil, the first tiny strawberries of the season, and a bottle of something the vendor called "traditional snaps" with a twinkle that should have warned me.

My first evening was meant to be a simple triumph. Grilled fish, boiled potatoes with dill, a civilised glass of wine. I fired up the cottage's little barbecue, which I'd assumed would behave like any other barbecue. It did not. Danish coastal wind is no joke, and I spent twenty minutes chasing flames and singeing my eyebrows while the herring mocked me from their marinade. I ended up finishing them under the grill inside, which felt like admitting defeat but smelled considerably better than my own smouldering hair.

The local pub situation required investigation. There's a place called Hasmark Strandbad, a proper beach kiosk affair that does simple food and cold beer. I walked there the next evening, still smarting from my barbecue humiliation, and had the most perfect fish and chips. Well, Danish-style fish and chips - the fish was plaice, beer-battered and crisp, with remoulade instead of tartare sauce. I ate it sitting on the beach wall with my shoes off, watching families pack up their swimming gear, and felt genuinely content in that way you only do on holiday when you've stopped trying too hard.

I attempted to cook properly the following night. The cottage kitchen was well-equipped, which lured me into false confidence. I made a stew with local pork, those market vegetables, and what I thought was a sensible amount of herbs. I misjudged the Danish pork, which is leaner than I'm used to, and ended up with something that tasted fine but had the texture of overcooked school dinner. My partner was polite about it. We opened more wine.

Breakfast became my true domain. The cottage had a proper coffee machine, and I mastered the local rhythm: slow morning, fresh bread from the baker in nearby Otterup (a ten-minute drive, worth every second), cheese and jam and that terrifying strong stuff sliced thin. I started buying rye bread too, the dark proper kind, though I never quite convinced myself I preferred it to my usual white sliced. Some cultural boundaries remain uncrossed.

The snaps made its appearance on our final evening. We'd gathered bits from the market - smoked salmon, pickled vegetables, more of that paint-stripping cheese - and laid it out as a proper Danish spread. The snaps was ceremonially opened. I took a cautious sip and understood immediately why it's served in tiny glasses. It was like drinking liquid fire that had been briefly introduced to some sort of herb. I had three glasses, because I'm an idiot abroad, and spent the next morning with a headache that no amount of strong coffee could touch.

I left Hasmark Strand with a slightly expanded waistline, a new respect for Danish barbecue engineering, and a half-finished bottle of snaps that I couldn't face finishing but felt wrong throwing away. Some holidays teach you about yourself. This one taught me that I should stick to pub fish, respect local fire conditions, and never trust a goat shortcut.