I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I put the postcode into my sat nav and it directed me to a field full of very unimpressed cows. Turns out there is a difference between Skastrup and Skastrup Strand, and that difference is about four kilometres of Danish countryside and one deeply embarrassed British man reversing past a farmhouse while waving apologetically.

By the time I actually reached the holiday home at Skastrup Strand, I was ravenous and slightly traumatised. The place itself was an absolute gem though - proper traditional Danish summer house vibes, all wooden cladding and big windows looking out towards the water. I dumped my bags, made a cup of tea that tasted mostly of triumph, and immediately started thinking about dinner. This was to become the dominant theme of the entire trip, if I am honest.

The kitchen in the holiday home was surprisingly well-equipped, which was fortunate because my first attempt at cooking was an unmitigated disaster. I had picked up some lovely fresh fish from a local harbour shop, thinking I would do something simple and elegant. What I produced was something that tasted like the sea had personally offended me. I ate it anyway, standing at the counter in my socks, and made a mental note that perhaps my culinary confidence needed reining in.

The next morning I walked to a nearby farm shop, which is apparently a very Funen thing to do and I am now completely converted. I bought eggs that still had straw on them, vegetables that actually tasted of something, and a loaf of rye bread that weighed approximately the same as a small dog. The woman running the place spoke excellent English and found my attempts at Danish pronunciation genuinely amusing. "Brød," I said, pointing. She smiled politely and repeated it back correctly, which I am fairly certain was the exact same noise I had made, but apparently not.

That evening I did considerably better with my cooking. Proper Danish smørrebrød, open-faced sandwiches piled high with the good eggs, some pickled herring I had bravely purchased, and butter. So much butter. I ate three and felt extremely pleased with myself, which is the smørrebrød experience in a nutshell really.

I did venture out to a proper pub in a nearby village, though "pub" feels slightly wrong for what was essentially a cosy local restaurant with excellent beer. The place served traditional Danish dishes, and I had a pork roast that was so tender I actually paused mid-bite to compose a mental thank-you letter to the chef. The snaps came with it, which I had forgotten about, and which nearly took my eyebrows off. The locals found this hilarious. I found it educational.

There was a small market in a nearby town one morning, mostly produce and crafts, where I bought some local cheese that I proceeded to eat entirely by myself over the course of one rainy afternoon. No regrets whatsoever. I also attempted to make a traditional Danish dessert called æbleskiver, which are these spherical pancake things. Mine came out various shapes, none of them spherical, but they tasted decent enough and I ate the evidence before anyone could witness my shame.

By the end of the week I had settled into a glorious rhythm of market mornings, ambitious cooking projects, and the occasional restorative visit to that lovely local place for a meal I did not have to wash up after. I left Skastrup Strand several pounds heavier and significantly more knowledgeable about Danish dairy products, which feels like a proper holiday achievement if you ask me.