I had convinced myself that driving from Aalborg Airport to our holiday let in Saeby would be straightforward enough, even after a 6am flight and a regrettable airport breakfast of something claiming to be a bacon roll. The sat nav had other ideas, naturally, depositing me down a farm track where I performed a twelve-point turn surrounded by deeply unimpressed cattle. My partner sat in silence, clutching her coffee. I whistled, as if this had all been terribly intentional.

We found the proper road eventually, winding through flat Danish farmland that gradually gave way to the proper character of North Jutland, low hedgerows and those distinctive red-roofed houses. Saeby itself appeared like a postcard someone had left out in the rain, all soft colours and harbour smells. Our cottage sat near enough to the water that you could hear the masts clinking in the marina, which I took as a promising sign for the week ahead.

The first mission, always, is provisioning. We dumped our bags and marched to the local supermarket with the misplaced confidence of people who cook properly at home. I had grand visions of recreating Danish classics, perhaps something with herring, definitely something with dill. The reality of a foreign supermarket is rather more humbling. I stood before a wall of dairy products for a solid five minutes, entirely defeated by the butter selection. My partner wandered off and returned with rugbrod, which she described as "that dark bread that tastes like health itself." We bought three types of remoulade by accident, confusing the jars, and a lump of something pork-related that we later established was not bacon but was not entirely not bacon either.

That first evening we attempted a simple meal at the cottage. The kitchen was perfectly adequate, which made our failure more embarrassing. I managed to set off the smoke alarm with nothing more aggressive than fried potatoes, having underestimated how enthusiastically Danish butter browns. We ate on the little terrace, swatting at the evening insects, drinking supermarket wine that cost more than it should and tasted of regret. The pork-bacon-not-bacon sat uneaten, wrapped in foil like a shameful present.

By morning we admitted defeat and sought professional help. Saeby's harbour area has a handful of places that do that wonderful Danish thing of looking unassuming and producing excellent food. We found a cafe doing proper smorrebrod, the open sandwiches that I'd previously only encountered in overpriced London pop-ups. Here they were substantial, practical things, dense with pickled fish and egg and that remoulade we'd already accumulated in jars at home. I had one with fried plaice, caught that morning according to our waitress, who may have been humouring me but I chose to believe her.

The discovery of Saeby's fish market changed everything. Operating from a modest shed near the harbour, it offered the genuine article, silver and fresh and properly iced. I bought a whole cod with the naive confidence of a man who had watched perhaps too many cooking programmes. The woman behind the counter asked if I wanted it gutted, and I said yes with perhaps too much enthusiasm, grateful for the intervention.

That evening's attempt went better. We baked the cod simply, with butter and dill from a pot we'd bought at a local nursery, served with boiled potatoes that actually tasted of something. The rugbrod, now several days old, had developed a personality that divided the household. I found it grew on me, in the way that certain friendships develop slowly. My partner maintained it was punishment for sins she hadn't committed.

We found our local, eventually, a pub near the harbour that served Tuborg and simple food to a mixed crowd of locals and summer visitors. The barman spoke better English than I do, which I found mildly offensive, and recommended a local aquavit that I accepted out of politeness and regretted by the third glass. They did a decent frikadeller, the Danish meatballs, with red cabbage that stained everything it touched. I ate them three times that week, claiming research purposes.

By our final days we'd developed a routine. Morning coffee at the cottage, then a wander to check what the fishing boats had brought in. Lunch became a movable feast of market purchases, bread from the baker near the church, cheese that we couldn't properly name. We cooked simpler things, better things, having accepted our limitations. One evening I managed a respectable fish soup, heavy on the dill, served with the last of that stubborn rugbrod toasted into something almost crouton-like.

The pork-bacon-not-bacon remained in the fridge until departure, when we threw it out with the solemnity of a funeral. Some mysteries, I decided, were not meant to be solved.