I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to leave our carefully packed cool bag on the kitchen table back in London. There we were, four hours into the drive from Copenhagen Airport, stomachs rumbling like an angry jazz band, and my prize collection of British cheeses and proper bacon sat 800 miles away having a lovely time without us. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "I love you but honestly" look. Still, we pressed on toward Bjerge Sydstrand, convinced that Danish supermarkets would save us.

The cottage itself sits in that rather lovely stretch of south Zealand coast, all weathered wood and sensible Scandinavian windows. First impressions? It smelled of pine and possibility, with a kitchen that actually had decent knives for once. I've stayed in enough holiday lets where the knives couldn't cut butter, so this felt like winning the lottery. The view from the deck showed proper Danish seaside: low dunes, that particular Baltic light, and the quiet sense that nobody was about to rush anywhere.

With no cool bag and evening approaching, we did what any sensible people would do. We drove to Koge. It's about twenty minutes, close enough to feel local, far enough to feel like an expedition. The harbour area has a few restaurants that do that very Danish thing of looking understated but charging appropriately. We found a place doing fresh herring in various states of pickled magnificence. I ordered the smorrebrod because when in Rome, and because I'd read somewhere that you're meant to. The rye bread was dense enough to build houses with, the herring was sharp and sweet and completely unlike anything my grandmother would have recognised, and the aquavit left me wondering why we don't drink more of it at home. Probably because we'd never get anything done.

The next morning revealed the true scale of my cool bag disaster. Breakfast required actual procurement. We found a baker in Bjerge itself, because even small Danish villages understand the sacred nature of morning bread. The kanelsnegle was still warm, which I consider a basic human right that Britain somehow denies its citizens. We ate them in the car like animals, flakes of cinnamon pastry everywhere, no regrets.

Market day in Koge happened to be that Saturday. I love a market, me. The delusion that I will become a person who buys fresh produce daily and cooks seasonally returns every single holiday. I purchased vegetables I couldn't name with any confidence. Some kind of root thing that the stallholder suggested roasting with thyme. Local new potatoes that actually tasted of something, which always shocks me after British supermarket versions. A lump of smoked fish that I carried around proudly like a hunting trophy.

Back at the cottage, I attempted to cook properly. The kitchen, as I mentioned, was genuinely well-equipped, which meant I had no excuses. I made a fish soup of sorts, heavy on the dill because Denmark, with those mysterious root vegetables cubed and roasted alongside. It was... fine. My partner was kind about it. The aquavit helped. What I lacked in technique I made up for in enthusiasm and liberal butter usage, another area where the Danes clearly understand life's priorities.

The local pub situation in Bjerge itself is limited, which is putting it generously. There's a village inn that does simple food and has that particular atmosphere of being slightly surprised to see tourists. We went twice. The first time I tried to order in my terrible Danish and the barman switched to perfect English with the weariness of someone who has witnessed this many times. The second time I just pointed and smiled like the sophisticated international traveller I am. The beer was Tuborg, cold and unchallenging, and they did a reasonable stab at fish and chips that made me feel simultaneously at home and faintly traitorous.

Cooking became our evening ritual, partly by necessity, partly because the cottage genuinely invited it. We grilled fish from the Koge harbour on the outdoor setup, drank wine that cost more than it should have, and argued about whether the potatoes were done with the passion of people who have temporarily run out of real problems. I made a terrible rhubarb crumble with forced rhubarb from the market because I got nostalgic for something my mother used to make. The Danes don't really do crumble. There are reasons for this. We ate it anyway, with creme fraiche because custard felt like too much effort, and watched the light fade over the water.

By the end of the week I'd stopped mourning the cool bag. We'd found a rhythm of market mornings, simple lunches, and cooking experiments that ranged from genuinely decent to educational failures. The herring remained the highlight, honestly. That first meal set a standard my own efforts never quite matched. On our last evening we returned to the same Koge restaurant, slightly smarter, slightly more sun-touched, and I ordered the exact same smorrebrod. Some things you don't need to improve. Some holidays you just need to eat your way through, cool bag or no cool bag, and hope the kitchen knives are sharp enough for whatever you bring home.