The drive up from Copenhagen Airport was meant to take forty minutes, but I'd made the classic error of trusting my phone's pronunciation of Danish place names. "Villingebaek Strand," I'd said confidently to the woman at the car hire desk, rolling the 'r' like I knew what I was doing. Three wrong turns and one very patient local later, I found myself in a supermarket car park in Helsingor wondering why the sea was on the wrong side. Turns out I'd been saying it with far too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough glottal stop.

By the time I pulled up to the little white holiday home, I was ravenous and slightly embarrassed. The key was in the lockbox, the air smelled of salt and pine, and the kitchen window framed the Oresund like a painting I definitely didn't deserve after my navigational performance. I dumped my bags and did what any sensible person would do: opened every cupboard to assess the cookware situation.

The kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, which was just as well because my first attempt at being a coastal holidaymaker was going to involve fish. I'd spotted a smokehouse sign on my accidental detour and was determined to return properly fed. But first, the essentials. The local Netto in Villingebaek village was small, cheerful, and staffed by a teenager who patiently explained that the various tubes of caviar-adjacent paste were for different times of day, apparently. I bought three, plus some dense rye bread, local butter, and a pork roast that looked manageable for someone whose usual cooking repertoire peaks at spag bol.

That evening I attempted my first proper Danish meal. The pork went in with reasonable confidence. The potatoes, however, I managed to both overcook and undercook simultaneously through some culinary magic I still don't understand. The remoulade from the fridge saved everything. I ate on the little wooden deck with a cheap lager, watching the light fade over Sweden, and decided that culinary perfection was overrated when you had a view like that.

The next morning I found the bakery. It wasn't fancy, just a proper local place where the woman behind the counter spoke to me in Danish for a full minute before my blank expression gave me away. She switched to English without breaking stride and recommended the tebirkes, which turned out to be a poppy-seeded pastry of such buttery magnificence that I returned every morning for four days. On day three she started preparing my coffee before I'd reached the counter. I felt genuinely accepted.

The smokehouse I'd spotted became my afternoon pilgrimage. Villingebaek is that sort of place - small, working, not trying to impress anyone. The smokehouse had been there since before I was born, probably before my parents were born. I bought hot-smoked salmon, dense and oily and pink, plus some cold-smoked mackerel that I intended to eat with restraint and absolutely did not. The man running it asked if I wanted the "holiday portion" or the "proper portion." I said proper. He nodded approvingly.

Back at the house I made elaborate open sandwiches that I ate standing at the kitchen window, too impatient to sit down. The rye bread was an acquired taste that I acquired within approximately two bites. Dense, sour, substantial - the sort of bread that makes you understand why Scandinavians don't really do afternoon snacking. You're still full from breakfast.

I did attempt the local pub scene, though "scene" is overstating it considerably. The nearest proper pub was a ten-minute drive, a low building with a Danish flag and a hand-painted sign. Inside it was all dark wood and regulars who looked up when I entered then immediately returned to their conversations, which I preferred to the enforced cheeriness of tourist spots. I ordered a Tuborg and asked about food. The barman gestured to a chalkboard with three options, one of which was "today's fish" and two of which were variations on pork. I had the fish. It was simple, perfectly cooked, served with boiled potatoes and parsley sauce that tasted of actual parsley. The whole meal cost less than a single cocktail back in London.

On my final evening I tried to recreate something respectable. I'd been to the market in Helsingor that morning, the proper one near the harbour, and bought fresh plaice from a man who filleted it while complaining about the weather in the universal language of people who work outdoors. I had new potatoes, proper butter, and a bunch of dill that cost more than I expected but smelled like summer itself.

The fish pan-fried beautifully. The potatoes were actually correct this time, though I suspect that was luck rather than skill. I made a sort of improvised sauce with the butter and some lemon I'd remembered to buy. Sat on that deck for the last time, I realised I'd spent more time thinking about meals in five days than I usually managed in five weeks at home. There was something about the simplicity of it - good ingredients, basic kitchen, no pressure to be impressive - that had unlocked something. I wasn't a better cook, really. I'd just stopped trying to be clever and started paying attention.

The last of the tebirkes went down with morning coffee. The woman at the bakery had thrown in an extra, unprompted. I took it as a proper farewell.