I have to start with the satnav, because it is entirely to blame. There we were, my partner and I, cruising through Schleswig-Holstein with that lovely smugness you get when the German motorways are running smoothly and you have a boot full of snacks. Then the robotic voice piped up with what I can only describe as excessive confidence. "Turn left," it commanded, straight into a field. Not a road. A field. With cows. We did not turn left, but we did spend twenty minutes in a village that appeared on no map, circling a war memorial and arguing about whether to trust technology or instinct. Instinct won, eventually, and we rolled into Busum proper with slightly frayed nerves and a desperate need for lunch.

The cottage itself, when we finally found it, was one of those proper North Sea holiday lets with weatherboarding and a small terrace that looked out towards the mudflats. I had grand plans for that terrace. Morning coffee watching the tide, evening wine with the salt breeze. But first, lunch. We dumped our bags and practically sprinted to the harbour, because Busum's harbour is where the food happens, and I had done my research.

The fish stalls were our first stop, and I am not exaggerating when I say the smell hit us like a friendly slap. Smoked mackerel, fresh from the smokehouses that morning. We bought two whole fish, still warm, and a tub of shrimp that the woman behind the counter assured us were "Nordseekrabben, sehr frisch." I nodded as if I understood the significance, which I did not, until I tasted them. Sweet, tiny, completely different from anything I had encountered in British fishmongers. We ate them standing up, using the plastic forks provided, getting fish oil on our chins and not caring even slightly.

That evening, we attempted to cook. The cottage kitchen was well-equipped, which should have been a warning. I have a theory that the more equipment provided, the more ambitious one becomes, and the more spectacular the failure. I had purchased pork schnitzel from the local butcher, plus potatoes and some white asparagus that was apparently in season. My partner handled the potatoes with reasonable competence. I took charge of the schnitzel. The oil was too hot, then too cold, then somehow both simultaneously. The result was edible but spiritually defeated, a schnitzel that tasted of regret. We ate it on the terrace with a bottle of Riesling from the supermarket, and I made a mental note to leave frying to professionals.

The professionals, thankfully, were everywhere. The next night we found a proper pub near the harbour, one of those dark-wood places with maritime decorations and locals who looked like they had been coming since before the war. I ordered Labskaus, which I had read about in a guidebook and which the waiter delivered with a slight raise of his eyebrow. It is corned beef, mashed with potato and beetroot, topped with a fried egg and pickled herring. It looks like something you might feed a convalescing horse. It tastes, against all visual evidence, absolutely brilliant. Salty, comforting, the kind of food that makes you want to nap immediately afterwards. My partner had fish soup, which was thinner than expected but deeply flavoured with saffron and shrimp stock. We drank local beer, Flensburger I think, and listened to a group of older men arguing about football in a dialect I could not begin to follow.

The market in Busum runs twice weekly, and we caught it on its second appearance. I had intended to buy ingredients for another cooking attempt, but instead we grazed like livestock. Fresh bread from a bakery stall, still warm enough to soften the butter we spread on it. More of those tiny shrimp, this time on brown bread with a squeeze of lemon. A sausage from a grill stall, served in a proper bread roll with mustard that cleared my sinuses with alarming efficiency. I bought a jar of honey, locally produced, which I carried around for an hour before realising I had nowhere to put it and my hands were full of food.

Our final evening, defeated by my own culinary limitations, we returned to the harbour and ate at a restaurant with outdoor seating. I had the plaice, simply grilled with butter and lemon, and it was perfect in a way that my schnitzel had not been. The fish was so fresh it practically introduced itself. My partner had a seafood platter that arrived on a tiered stand, shrimp and mussels and little pots of sauce, and we shared a bottle of wine and watched the light fade over the mudflats.

I did use that terrace properly once, on our last morning, with coffee and the remains of the market bread. The satnav sat silent in the car, presumably plotting its next act of betrayal. I thought about the meals we had eaten, the ones I had attempted and the ones I had wisely left to others. There is a humility to holiday eating, I decided, a recognition that you are a guest in someone else's food culture, and that sometimes the best thing you can do is point at a menu item you do not recognise and hope for the best. It had mostly worked. The honey was in my suitcase, wrapped in socks for protection. The memory of that first smoked mackerel, eaten with plastic forks in a car park, would last longer than any properly plated restaurant meal. We packed up, checked the route home twice to avoid any more fields, and drove away slightly heavier than we had arrived, which seems to me the only proper measure of a successful trip.