I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I got us lost before we'd even left Copenhagen Airport. My phone decided that "Kyndelose Sydmark" sounded suspiciously like a type of Scandinavian cheese, and promptly directed us towards what turned out to be an industrial dairy depot. My partner sat in the passenger seat with that particular expression of British patience that isn't patience at all, while I did three laps of a roundabout near Frederikssund before admitting defeat and buying an actual paper map from a petrol station. The woman behind the counter looked at me like I'd asked for a telegram.

We found the place eventually, down a lane that felt properly rural without being dramatic about it. The cottage sat there looking sensible and welcoming, all timber and decent proportions, with a garden that had clearly been loved by someone who understood compost. I immediately tripped over the doorstep carrying the first bag, which my partner recorded for posterity and has since shown to three separate dinner parties.

The kitchen, though. That was where I properly came alive. I'd done my usual overenthusiastic shop at a supermarket in Hillerod, filling the boot with Danish bacon and various cheeses I couldn't pronounce and something called "remoulade" that I still don't fully understand. The plan was simple: cook properly, eat locally, pretend I was the sort of person who holidayed with intention rather than just surviving on crisps and breakfast beer.

The first evening I attempted what I called "North Zealand fish stew," using cod from the harbour at Helsingor that we'd picked up that afternoon. The fish was immaculate, the sort of freshness that makes you slightly angry about what passes for seafood back home. My stew, however, tasted primarily of ambition and too much fennel. We ate it on the terrace with a bottle of supermarket white, watching the light do that prolonged Scandinavian fade that makes evening feel like an event rather than an inconvenience. It was imperfect and lovely, and I ate two portions out of stubbornness.

Breakfast became a ritual. The cottage had one of those proper coffee makers that looks like laboratory equipment, and I took excessive pleasure in operating it each morning. We'd drive to a bakery in nearby Oelsted for rundstykker, those round breakfast rolls that Danes somehow make taste more significant than their humble appearance suggests. I'd balance a paper bag of them on my knee coming back, eating one warm in the car like a greedy child, scattering seeds across my lap.

The local market in Frederikssund happened on a Saturday, and I approached it with the focused intensity of someone who'd watched too many food documentaries. I bought smoked mackerel from a man who spoke better English than I do, and new potatoes still dusty from the fields, and strawberries that actually tasted of something. That evening I kept things simple: boiled potatoes with butter and dill, the mackerel flaked onto rye bread, strawberries with cream. It was the best meal of the holiday, achieved by finally accepting my limitations.

We found a pub in Slangerup that served proper Danish open sandwiches, the smorrebrod, which I attacked with knife and fork in what I hoped was the correct manner. The landlord watched me with amused tolerance and eventually brought over an aquavit "to help with the herring." It did not help with the herring. It helped with my confidence, which amounted to the same thing by the third glass.

On our final morning I stood in that kitchen trying to use up leftovers, making what I termed a "North Zealand fry-up" that incorporated Danish bacon, leftover potatoes, and a questionable egg. My partner observed that I'd essentially invented something available in every cafe in Britain. I defended my creation with the passion of the slightly hungover, eating it standing at the counter in my pyjamas, already mourning the loss of this routine.

We left the cottage cleaner than we found it, which felt like the minimum decency. I took a photo of the kitchen, which is something I never do, and have looked at it since when January feels endless. The map from the petrol station sits in my glove box still, a reminder that getting lost sometimes leads exactly where you needed to be.