I had convinced myself that driving from Esbjerg to Bjerregard would be a doddle. Forty minutes, straight road, bit of Danish countryside to admire. What I had not accounted for was my spectacular ability to confuse left and right at roundabouts when mildly flustered. Three circuits of the same junction in Ho, windows down, frantically waving at the same bemused cyclist each time. By the third lap I was half-tempted to invite him for dinner out of sheer embarrassment.

The cottage itself, when I finally arrived, was proper West Jutland. Red wooden walls, thatched roof you could practically hear sagging with character, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of last summer's smoked fish and good intentions. I dumped my bags, flung open the fridge, and found a thoughtful welcome pack. Local eggs, a lump of aged Danbo cheese, and a jar of something pickled that I decided to tackle later when my courage had returned.

That first evening I did what any sensible person would do. I walked to the local pub, or what passes for one in these parts - a modest place in Ho where fishermen and holidaymakers coexist in comfortable truce. I ordered a pint and the plaice, because you do not come to West Jutland and ignore the fish. It arrived simply, beautifully, with new potatoes and a butter sauce that made me want to write poetry I am fundamentally unqualified to compose. The chap next to me, weathered as the dunes, nodded approvingly at my choice. "You did not order the burger," he said, as if this confirmed something about my character. I chose to take it as compliment.

The next morning I attempted market shopping. Ho's little harbour market runs sporadically, and I had misread the dates entirely. Instead of bustling stalls I found two men selling shrimp from the back of a van and a woman with rhubarb. I bought both, obviously. The shrimp were still twitching, which the seller assured me was the point. I carried them back like a particularly smelly trophy, already mentally composing the meal.

My kitchen attempts that week became a sort of comedy routine. The first night's fish stew started with ambition and ended with me frantically googling "how to rescue oversalted Danish soup" while drinking more wine than strictly went into the recipe. The rhubarb crumble was better, though I set off the smoke alarm and had to fling open every window, creating a draft that slammed the door and locked me briefly in the garden. I ate the crumble cold, in my coat, using a borrowed spoon from the neighbour who came to investigate my shouting.

I found my rhythm eventually. Morning trips to the Brugsen in Oksbol for rye bread and proper butter. Afternoon walks to Ho for ice cream that tasted of actual cream rather than whatever approximation we accept at home. One memorable evening I cobbled together a feast from the harbour - smoked mackerel, those twitching shrimp now mercifully still, dense rye bread, and a bottle of chilled white from the supermarket that cost less than a London coffee.

The pub became my second kitchen, really. The landlady started greeting me by name, which felt simultaneously like triumph and mild concern about my drinking habits. Their frikadeller on Wednesday nights were proper comfort, served with red cabbage and a gravy I suspect involved secrets. I once tried to recreate them in the cottage, mincing pork with desperate enthusiasm. The result was edible, which is the most generous thing I can say. Some things belong to professionals in warm rooms with regular customers.

My final morning I attempted the full Danish breakfast I had been admiring all week. Soft-boiled egg, which I cracked with excessive force and sprayed across my own face. The cheese, at least, obeyed me. I sat there, yolk in my eyebrow, looking out at the dunes, and laughed properly for the first time in months. You do not come to West Jutland for perfection. You come for the fish that tastes of actual sea, for the pubs where nobody performs being happy, for kitchens that forgive your disasters and neighbours who lend spoons without asking why you are locked outside in your socks.

I left the remaining pickled jar unopened. Some mysteries require a return visit, and I am already plotting my next wrong turn at that roundabout.