I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I confidently marched up to what I thought was our Ostseeresort Olpenitz apartment, jiggled the key for a good three minutes, and only realised my mistake when a confused German teenager opened the door and politely explained, in excellent English, that I was two buildings over. My partner found this absolutely hilarious, naturally, and has since referred to me as "the burglar" for the entire trip.

The drive up through Schleswig-Holstein had been gorgeous though, all flat green fields and those enormous wind turbines spinning lazily against a enormous sky. We stopped at a roadside farm shop somewhere near Eckernforde and bought a lump of smoked fish that smelled so strongly our car still reeked of it three days later. Worth it, absolutely, but perhaps not the wisest choice for confined spaces.

By the time we actually located our proper apartment at Ostseeresort Olpenitz, I was famished and slightly humiliated. The place itself was spot on though - proper Baltic Sea views, all sleek Scandinavian-ish design, and a kitchen that looked considerably more competent than its operator. I immediately opened every cupboard to assess cooking possibilities, as one does, and discovered a previous guest had left behind a single jar of something pickled and unidentifiable. A culinary mystery for another day.

That first evening, we abandoned any pretence of self-catering and walked the ten minutes to the nearest proper pub situation, a no-nonsense harbour place where the menu was in German only and my translation app failed spectacularly. I ordered what I believed was fried fish and received something involving enormous prawns and a frankly aggressive amount of garlic. My partner fared better with a schnitzel the size of a dinner plate. The local beer was excellent, cold and crisp, and the barman tolerated my pointing and smiling with good grace. We ate outside as the light faded over the water, and I decided that being rubbish at directions was a small price to pay for moments like this.

The next morning, I attacked the resort's cooking facilities with misplaced confidence. The plan was simple: proper German breakfast, something I'd been dreaming about since booking. I marched to the local supermarket in nearby Kappeln, which turned out to be a brilliant little place with an astonishing cheese selection and bread that actually tasted of something. I bought far too much of everything, as is my way, including some mysterious sausage that the butcher recommended with a wink I chose to interpret positively.

Back at the apartment, reality set in. My eggs went slightly rubbery, the bacon was simultaneously underdone and burnt in places I didn't think scientifically possible, and I overcooked the poor sausage into something resembling a leather bookmark. My partner, bless her, ate it all without complaint and declared it "rustic." I know what rustic means. It means a mess made by someone who should know better at forty-two.

The local market in Kappeln, which runs on certain mornings, proved my salvation. I bought fresh fish from men who actually caught it, vegetables that still had soil attached, and bread from a baker who spoke no English but communicated perfectly through enthusiastic gestures and samples. That evening, I kept things simple. Good butter, good bread, excellent fish barely touched by heat, and a bottle of wine from the supermarket's surprisingly decent selection. Sometimes the best cooking is barely cooking at all, a lesson I am slowly, reluctantly learning.

We found another brilliant pub down near the water, all wooden benches and locals drinking steadily through the afternoon. The fish soup there was extraordinary, thick and smoky and properly restorative. I tried to identify the ingredients, got nowhere, and decided some secrets are better left mysterious. The owner, a formidable woman in her sixties, took pity on my obvious enthusiasm and brought us extra bread without being asked.

By our final day, I'd established a workable routine. Morning market wander, simple lunch assembled from good ingredients, afternoon walk along that extraordinary flat coastline, then either pub dinner or something I'd actually managed not to ruin back at the apartment. My fish-cooking improved marginally. My eggs remained problematic. Some things, apparently, cannot be fixed by a change of scenery.

On our last evening, we returned to that first harbour pub, the scene of my prawn-and-garlic surprise. This time I pointed at what someone else was eating, smiled hopefully, and received a magnificent plate of fried plaice with potatoes and a sauce I couldn't name but absolutely inhaled. The barman remembered me, I think, or perhaps he just recognised the expression of a man who has made peace with his own limitations.

Driving away, car still faintly fish-scented, I reflected that I'd arrived expecting to master German cooking in a week and was leaving with my incompetence gloriously confirmed. But also with full stomachs, happy memories, and a new appreciation for letting good ingredients speak for themselves. And perhaps, just perhaps, I'd finally learned which building was actually ours.