I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I confidently loaded our entire food shop into the boot, only to realise at the Hvide Sande roundabout that I'd left the cool bag on the kitchen table back in Aarhus. There it sat, smugly, with our bacon, our decent cheddar, and the marinated herring I'd been rather proud of selecting. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "we've been together eight years and you still do this" look. We pressed on toward Bjerregard Strand, me muttering about Danish supermarkets and the general unfairness of existence.

The cottage itself was a proper treat when we finally arrived, sandy-footed and slightly hangry. I'd booked it through NOVASOL, drawn in by the promise of being proper coastal, and it delivered. Big windows facing the North Sea, that particular West Jutland light that makes everything look slightly cinematic, and crucially, a kitchen that actually had space to cook properly. I'd had visions of terrible holiday kitchens with one blunt knife and a saucepan from approximately 1973. This one was decent. I immediately felt better about my cool bag catastrophe.

By this point, starvation was setting in. We jumped back in the car and headed for Hvide Sande, which is basically your nearest hope for anything resembling civilisation and a well-stocked Netto. I love a Danish supermarket, honestly. The bread selection alone could make me weep. We grabbed rugbrod, some decent butter, eggs, and I went slightly mad in the meat section buying far too much spegepolse. My partner had to physically remove me from the cheese aisle. We also picked up some local fish from the harbour shop, because if you're staying on the West Jutland coast and not eating fish, what are you even doing with your life?

That first evening, I attempted to cook the plaice we'd bought. Simple enough, you'd think. Pan, butter, lemon, done. I managed to set off the smoke alarm within four minutes. The cottage's alarm is LOUD. Like, "neighbours three doors down can probably hear it" loud. My partner opened every window while I flapped about with a tea towel, and the wind coming in off the North Sea did absolutely nothing helpful. We ate slightly charred fish with our hands practically frozen, laughing like idiots. It tasted brilliant anyway. Everything tastes better when you've nearly burned the house down for it.

The next morning, proper Danish breakfast. Rugbrod with leverpostej, which I know divides people, but I absolutely love the stuff. My partner sticks to cheese and marmalade, the coward. We sat with coffee watching the sea, and I had one of those moments where you think, actually, forgetting the cool bag was probably the best thing I could have done. We'd have missed this supermarket adventure, this ridiculous fish incident, this particular morning.

We found a brilliant little bakery in Hvide Sande on day three. Proper local place, none of your chain nonsense. The wienerbrod was still warm, and I ate two in the car park like an absolute animal. My partner had the sensible option of a sandwich. I have no regrets.

There's a pub we kept returning to as well, down near the harbour. Nothing fancy, just good Danish beer and straightforward food. Fish and chips, but done properly with local catch. We went on our last evening, slightly sunburned and thoroughly relaxed, and I ordered the same thing I'd had three nights running. The barman recognised us by then, gave us a nod. I felt briefly like a local, which is ridiculous after a week, but there you go.

Cooking in the cottage became our ritual. Simple things mostly, because holiday cooking should be simple. One night I attempted a proper Danish pork roast with the crackling and everything, feeling ambitious. It was... acceptable. The crackling was chewy rather than crisp. My partner was kind about it. We ate it with red cabbage from a jar and roasted potatoes, and it was fine. Not everything needs to be a triumph. That's something I'm slowly learning, mostly through mediocre crackling.

The local market in Hvide Sande happens on Saturdays, and we caught it on our final weekend. Bought honey from a man who'd clearly been making it for decades, and some rather excellent smoked salmon that never made it home because we ate it in the car with our fingers, like the classy individuals we are.

I came back slightly heavier, considerably happier, and with a new appreciation for Danish supermarkets and my own limited but enthusiastic cooking abilities. The forgotten cool bag was a blessing in disguise. Though I did buy another one immediately upon returning home. Just in case.