I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I got my left and right confused somewhere around Hillerod. There I was, proudly following Google Maps with the confidence of a man who had once navigated the M25 successfully, only to realise I'd done three laps of the same roundabout because I'd set the destination to "Gudmindrup Lang" instead of "Gudmindrup Lyng." Forty-five minutes of increasingly frantic Danish countryside later, I finally pulled up to the proper place, slightly sweaty, thoroughly embarrassed, and absolutely ravenous.

The cottage itself was lovely, all timber and hygge and that particular Scandinavian smell of pine and possibility. But I had no time for aesthetic appreciation. My stomach was making noises that would have disturbed the local wildlife. I dumped my bags, grabbed the car keys, and headed straight for Hojby in search of sustenance.

What I found was a small supermarket that closed in approximately twelve minutes. I have never shopped with such desperate intensity in my life. I emerged with a random assortment that can only be described as "panicked": three types of herring, some very expensive bacon, a loaf of rugbrod that weighed approximately as much as my car, and something I believed to be butter but later discovered was a rather aggressive cheese. Also, crucially, no vegetables whatsoever. I am a thirty-seven-year-old man who should know better.

That first evening, I attempted what I grandly termed "a traditional Danish supper." The herring was surprisingly magnificent with a bit of the rye bread and a splash of aquavit I'd spotted at the back of a cupboard left by some more organised previous guest. The bacon, however, I managed to burn while simultaneously undercooking some eggs in a pan that seemed to have its own mysterious temperature settings. I ate standing at the counter, mostly with my fingers, feeling like a very unsuccessful Viking.

The following morning, determined to do better, I drove the short distance to Gudmindrup Strand and found a little beach kiosk doing proper breakfast sandwiches. The remoulade alone nearly brought me to tears. Proper remoulade, not the sad approximation you get in British supermarkets. I sat on a bench eating my polsebrod, watching Danish families do sensible things with windbreaks and cool boxes, and felt an unexpected pang of something. Contentment, perhaps. Or possibly just relief that someone else was cooking.

I had grand plans to visit the local markets I'd read about, but North Zealand in early autumn keeps unpredictable hours. I found one in Odsherred that was essentially a man selling excellent apples from his van and another selling honey that tasted properly of somewhere specific. I bought both, obviously. The apples became a rather ambitious attempt at aeblekage that collapsed into something more like a trifle. I ate it anyway, standing in the cottage kitchen at midnight, feeling absurdly pleased with myself.

The local pub situation required investigation. I found a place in Hojby that did a perfectly decent burger and, more importantly, Carlsberg on tap that tasted nothing like the export stuff at home. The barman spoke better English than I do and was too polite to comment on my enthusiastic butchering of "skal" as a toast. I went back twice. The second time, I attempted to order in Danish and accidentally asked for a horse instead of another beer. We laughed. He gave me the beer anyway.

By the end of the week, my cooking had improved marginally. I could reliably fry an egg and had developed a genuine affection for smorrebrod assembled with whatever I had to hand. The rugbrod, once intimidating, became a trusted friend. I left the cottage with a bag of leftover herring, a jar of that remarkable honey, and the certain knowledge that I would never again trust my own navigation skills without triple-checking the spelling.