I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to get us lost before we'd even left the motorway. There I was, sat-nav blaring instructions in what I can only describe as aggressively cheerful German, while I confidently took the exit for Anklam instead of carrying on towards Usedom. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "we've been driving six hours and you promised me fish by the sea" look. Still, we found our way eventually, and pulling into Fischerdorf Zirchow as the late afternoon sun hit the wooden chalets, I forgot all about my navigational blunder.

The place smelled of pine and something else I couldn't quite place. Smoked fish, perhaps? The chalet was proper cosy, all timber beams and a kitchen that looked like it meant business. I had big plans for that kitchen. Big, ambitious, slightly delusional plans.

We'd brought supplies from a supermarket near Greifswald, which in hindsight was my first mistake. German supermarkets are brilliant, don't get me wrong, but I got slightly carried away in the meat section and bought enough bratwurst to feed a small village. Also some mysterious sausages I couldn't identify. The packaging had a picture of a wild boar looking deeply judgmental, which I feel was directed personally at me.

That first evening, I attempted to cook proper local style. Found some potatoes, planned to make them with the fish I'd definitely buy tomorrow. The result was edible, I'll give myself that. My partner was polite about it. The wild boar sausage was... an experience. Chewy. Very chewy. We opened a bottle of Riesling and sat on the little terrace watching the light fade, and somehow the chewy sausage became a running joke rather than a disaster.

The next morning, I was determined to do better. We walked to Zirchow itself, which took about twenty minutes through flat, marshy countryside that felt properly Northern German. Mist rising off fields, that sort of thing. The village has a bakery that opens early, and I stood in queue behind locals who all seemed to know exactly what they wanted while I panicked and pointed at something that turned out to be poppy seed strudel. Absolutely magnificent with coffee. I bought two more to take back, plus some dark bread that weighed approximately the same as a house brick.

The fish, though. That was what I'd come for. Back at the chalet, I studied the local information folder like it was exam material. There was a smokehouse mentioned, not far, down towards the coast proper. We drove there, me navigating properly this time, and the smell hit us before we saw the building. Proper smoked fish, mackerel and eel and things I didn't recognise hanging in the little shop. I bought far too much, obviously. The woman serving me spoke enough English to laugh when I attempted "Stint" and apparently pronounced it like a rude word. We both pretended that hadn't happened.

That evening, I finally cooked fish properly. Simple, just the smoked mackerel with those dense potatoes boiled and buttered, some of the dark bread, a salad I'd thrown together with more enthusiasm than skill. We ate on the terrace again, and this time there was no polite pretending. It was genuinely good. The simplicity of it, the quality of what I'd bought rather than anything clever I'd done.

We found a proper pub in Kamminke, a few miles along the coast. Sat outside with beers, watched the water. They did fish soup that put my efforts to shame, rich and smoky with chunks of white fish. I had two bowls and considered a third. My partner had herring prepared some traditional way, with onions and cream, and kept making appreciative noises that I chose to interpret as commentary on the food rather than comparison with my cooking.

Back at the chalet, I attempted to recreate that soup. Let's just say some things are best left to professionals with actual training and smokehouses out back. We finished the leftover smoked fish instead, and I made a mental note to buy more before we left. The wild boar sausage remained, untouched, in the fridge. A monument to ambition.

The little market in Ahlbeck, when we found it, was my undoing. Local honey, more bread, cheeses I couldn't name. I bought a wheel of something that turned out to be hand cheese, which is exactly what it sounds like and an acquired taste I have not yet acquired. My partner ate it bravely while I stuck to the honey on proper bread, feeling like a culinary coward but a happy one.

By the end of the week, I'd stopped trying to be impressive and just enjoyed eating well simply. Fresh fish, good bread, local beer, that heavy Riesling. The chalet kitchen saw actual success with breakfast fry-ups using German sausage and those dense potatoes sliced and fried. We found our rhythm, me and that kitchen. Not elegant, but honest.

On our last morning, I finally threw out the wild boar sausage. The judgmental boar on the packaging seemed almost relieved. We packed the car with more smoked fish than luggage, stopped at that bakery one final time for strudel to eat on the road. I navigated us back to the motorway correctly, first time, and my partner actually remarked upon it.

Some holidays are about what you see. This one was about what I ate, what I attempted to cook, and what I learned to leave to people who actually know what they're doing. I'd go back tomorrow. Possibly a better cook. Definitely a better navigator.