I have always believed that the true measure of a holiday is not the views or the weather, but the quality of the meals you manage to put together in an unfamiliar kitchen. This belief was tested rather severely when my partner and I arrived at our Kramnitze holiday home in Lolland, Denmark, after a journey that involved a wrong turn, a very flat tyre near Rodby, and my stubborn refusal to admit that I had been holding the map upside down for a solid twenty minutes.

The house itself was everything the pictures had promised. Red timber walls, a proper thatched roof, and a kitchen that looked like it had been designed by someone who actually enjoys cooking rather than merely tolerates it. I stood in the doorway with two bags of groceries from the SuperBrugsen in Nakskov and announced that I would be preparing a feast of local produce. My partner raised an eyebrow. She knows me well.

My first attempt at Danish cooking began with a misunderstanding about flaeskesteg. I had purchased what I believed to be a modest joint of pork, failing to notice that Danish portions operate on a different scale entirely. The crackling refused to crackle. The kitchen filled with smoke. The fire alarm, which I had not previously noticed, made itself known with an enthusiasm that suggested it had been waiting for this moment. We opened every window and stood in the garden eating slightly charred potatoes while the September breeze carried the smell of my culinary ambition across the fields toward the Baltic.

The following morning, properly humbled, we cycled to Kramnitze harbour in search of fish. The local smokehouse had opened early, and the man behind the counter spoke enough English to understand my request for "something traditional." He handed me a parcel of smoked herring that smelled of oak and patience. I ate one on the spot, standing by the water with my fingers oily and my dignity somewhat restored. My partner had the smoked salmon, which she declared perfect, though I suspect she was being kind after the previous evening's disaster.

Lunch became our reliable meal. We found a small pub in Rodbyhavn, nothing fancy, where the lunch plate came with rugbrod, pickled herring, and a beer that tasted of the local brewery's sensible approach to life. The landlord explained that Thursday evenings were for community singing, which we politely declined. I am many things, but a spontaneous Danish chorister is not among them. The food, however, was honest and unpretentious, and we returned twice more during our stay.

Back at the Kramnitze house, I gradually learned the kitchen's temperament. The oven ran hot. The good knives were kept in a drawer I had initially dismissed as empty. By Wednesday I managed a respectable stegt flaesk med persillesovs, the parsley sauce thick and proper, the pork crisp in a way that made my partner actually put down her book to comment. We ate it at the wooden table with candles lit against the early dark, and I felt briefly like a person who understands Denmark.

The local market in Maribo, held on Saturday morning, became our weekly ritual. We bought apples from a man who grew them in his own orchard, cheese from a woman who explained each variety with a seriousness I reserved for my own failed recipes, and bread that required no toasting to be worth eating. I attempted to ask for "three" of something in Danish and apparently requested "eleven" instead, which explained the excessive quantity of pastries we carried home.

My most successful cooking effort came on our final evening. A simple fish soup, made with cod from the harbour, cream, and dill from a pot I had noticed growing by the kitchen window. Nothing ambitious. Nothing that required crackling. We ate it with the last of the rugbrod and a bottle of white wine that had been chilling in the refrigerator since our arrival. My partner said it tasted of the sea, and of not trying too hard, and I understood that she meant it as the highest compliment.

I left Lolland with recipes scrawled on the back of a ferry timetable, a new respect for Danish smokehouses, and the certain knowledge that holiday cooking is not about mastery but about paying attention to what is available and not setting off the fire alarm more than twice in a single week.