I'd left Aalborg with a full tank and an empty stomach, which is never a sensible combination. The sat-nav had other ideas about the route to Hjarbaek Fjord, sending me down a farm track that ended in a field of particularly judgmental-looking sheep. By the time I found the proper road, I'd eaten an entire bag of liquorice allsorts in stress and was in no fit state to appreciate the scenery.

The holiday home sat right on the fjord's edge, all red wood and big windows, and my first thought was whether I could manage the barbecue before unpacking. This proved optimistic. The previous guests had left the grill in a state that suggested they'd been cooking for a Viking raid rather than a family of four. I spent twenty minutes scrubbing and muttering, then gave up and decided to find a pub.

Hjarbaek itself is barely a village, more a scattering of houses and a harbour where men in sensible jackets stand about discussing boats. The local inn, such as it is, does a decent pint of Classic and a pork sandwich that tastes properly of pig rather than supermarket packaging. I ate two, feeling slightly ashamed of myself, and listened to a conversation about mackerel seasons that I understood not one word of.

Back at the house, I attempted proper cooking. The kitchen was well-equipped, which is always dangerous for a man whose signature dish is beans on toast. I'd bought lamb from a farm shop near Skals, reasoning that North Jutland lamb is famous and I ought to try it. The result was edible, barely, though I overcooked it through nervousness and the smoke alarm voiced its displeasure. I ate on the terrace watching the fjord turn silver in the evening light, and decided that scenery compensates for many culinary sins.

The next morning I found the Hjarbaek harbour market, which happens irregularly and with little announcement, as if the locals prefer to keep it secret from outsiders. I bought new potatoes still dusty with soil, smoked mackerel from a man who'd caught them himself, and a loaf of rye bread heavy enough to use as a doorstop. The fishmonger looked at my selections and said something in Danish that made the woman behind him laugh. I smiled and nodded, suspecting I'd been identified as a culinary incompetent.

That afternoon I attempted smorrebrod, the open-faced sandwiches that Danes take seriously enough to warrant actual competitions. My version collapsed immediately, the herring sliding off into the fjord where presumably some lucky gull enjoyed a proper Danish lunch. I ate the remains with a fork, like a savage.

The nearest proper restaurant is in Viborg, twenty minutes away, and I treated myself on the third evening to a meal I hadn't cooked myself. The place does traditional Danish food without irony: roast pork with crackling, red cabbage sweet and sharp together, gravy you could stand a spoon in. I drank too much aquavit and took a taxi back, which cost roughly what the meal had.

By the end of the week, I'd improved marginally. A final barbecue, the grill now properly cleaned, produced sausages that were only slightly charred. I ate them with the last of the rye bread and a local beer, watching the same men in the same jackets discussing the same boats. There's something comforting about places that don't change much, where meals matter and cooking is treated as a skill worth learning rather than a inconvenience to outsource.

I left with a jar of the harbour's honey and a resolution to take proper cooking lessons. Also with the certain knowledge that I'd be back, perhaps with more allsorts for the journey but hopefully with slightly more kitchen competence.