I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put the postcode into my sat nav and it directed me to a field full of very unimpressed cows. Turns out Havnso Strand is in Odsherred, not wherever my ancient TomTom thought I was going. Three U-turns and one slightly tense conversation with a man on a tractor later, I finally spotted the sea glinting in the distance and knew I was on the right track.

The cottage itself was one of those classic Danish summer houses, all pale wood and enormous windows that practically beg you to stand in your pants looking out at the water with a cup of tea. I did exactly this approximately four minutes after arrival, having abandoned my suitcase in the doorway like a dramatic entrance. The kitchen, I immediately noticed, was surprisingly well-equipped for a holiday let. This would prove to be both a blessing and a curse.

My first evening, I decided to test this kitchen with a simple pasta situation. Simple, I thought. How hard can it be? Reader, I set off the smoke alarm. Something about the unfamiliar hob, something about my refusal to read instructions, something about the three glasses of supermarket wine I'd already had. I ended up eating slightly blackened garlic bread on the tiny deck, swatting at midges and laughing at myself. The view of the Kattegat at sunset almost made up for my culinary disaster. Almost.

The next morning, properly chastened, I wandered into Havnso itself to find actual food made by competent adults. The harbour area is small but perfectly formed, with a couple of fish shops selling the day's catch that smelled so aggressively of the sea you knew it was proper. I bought some smoked mackerel and bread from the bakery round the corner, then sat on a bench watching boats come in while seagulls judged me from a respectful distance. That lunch, eaten with my fingers in the sunshine, was already better than anything I could have constructed myself.

I discovered that Odsherred takes its food seriously in that understated Scandinavian way. The local supermarket in nearby Vig became my second home. I spent an embarrassing amount of time in the cheese section, trying to pronounce things and pointing a lot. The staff were endlessly patient, probably used to hopeless Brits attempting to recreate hygge with the wrong dairy products. I bought too much, always too much, and hauled it back to the cottage to experiment.

One evening I attempted a proper Danish-inspired feast. There were potatoes with some kind of dill situation. There was pickled herring, which I bought because I felt I should. There was aquavit, which I definitely should not have bought. I ate on the deck again, this time successfully unalarmed, and felt genuinely proud of my little spread. The herring was an acquired taste I have not yet acquired, but the potatoes were magnificent. Sometimes the simplest things, done with enough butter and fresh herbs, need no improvement.

The local pub in Havnso became my regular haunt. Nothing fancy, just a proper working harbour spot where fishermen and holidaymakers coexist over cold beers and straightforward food. I ate fried plaice there one night, crispy and perfect with remoulade and more of those excellent potatoes. The landlord spoke better English than my Danish, which was nonexistent beyond tak and skal, and we managed conversations about football and weather with the international language of shrugging and gesturing.

By my final day, my fridge contained the archaeological layers of a week of overambitious shopping. Half a tub of something creamy and unidentifiable. The remains of a rye bread that had gone from charmingly dense to weaponised hardness. Three different mustards, because apparently I panicked in the condiment aisle. I packed it all into the car with the same chaotic energy I'd arrived with, already planning which bakery I'd stop at on the drive home.

I left the smoke alarm intact, the kitchen slightly more seasoned than I'd found it, and my culinary confidence both shaken and strangely improved. There's something about failing publicly in your own holiday kitchen, then slowly rebuilding through excellent local ingredients and the patience of Danish shopkeepers, that teaches you something. I'm not sure what. Probably that I should stick to buying fish from people who know what they're doing, and that everything tastes better when you can see the water it came from while you're eating it.