We set off from Hamburg at half six in the morning, full of that smug energy you get when you have actually left on time for once. The boot was packed with more food than a family of six could manage, because my partner had decided we were "self-catering properly" this trip. Three hours to Strandraeuber at Ostseeresort Olpenitz, just outside Kappeln in Schleswig-Holstein. Simple enough. Except I had misread the sat nav and directed us towards a ferry terminal that no longer existed, leaving us circling a industrial estate near Schleswig while seagulls laughed at us and our supplies of German sausage grew increasingly warm.

By the time we found the resort, parked, and lugged our ridiculous quantities of provisions up to the apartment, I was ready to eat my own arm. The place itself stopped me short though. Proper Baltic Sea views, that modern Scandinavian-meets-north-German architecture, all clean lines and enormous windows. Our balcony looked directly over the water, and someone in the next building was already grilling something that smelled absolutely criminal.

The kitchen at Strandraeuber is genuinely impressive, which was fortunate given our ambitions. My partner immediately began unpacking what can only be described as a small deli: smoked fish from a Hamburg market, local pork sausages, dense rye bread, butter that actually tasted of something, and several bottles of Flensburger Pilsner because when in Rome. I was assigned chopping duty, which should have been straightforward. It was not. I managed to render an onion into something resembling mush while attempting to look competent, and nearly set fire to the excellent induction hob with a rogue piece of loose cabbage.

That first evening we walked to the resort's own little restaurant area, a five-minute stroll along the boardwalk. Nothing fancy, just simple north German coastal cooking. I had the Fischbrotchen, that classic Baltic fish roll, with properly pickled herring and remoulade that made my eyes water in the best way. My partner went for the smoked salmon plate, which came with capers the size of small grapes and brown bread so dense you could build walls with it. We sat outside with our beers, watching the light change over the Schlei inlet, and I felt that particular holiday peace descend despite my earlier navigational shame.

The next morning we attempted breakfast like locals. Dark bread, cold cuts, cheese, boiled eggs with proper runny yolks. I made coffee in the provided machine and immediately felt more sophisticated than I actually am. We had plans to visit the Kappeln harbour market, a Tuesday and Saturday affair where local fishermen sell their morning catch alongside farm cheeses and those enormous soft pretzels that only exist in this corner of Germany.

The market did not disappoint. We bought more fish than two people should reasonably possess, plus some mysterious pickled vegetables that the vendor assured us were "traditional." Back at the apartment, I attempted to cook proper Matjes herring with potatoes and sour cream, following instructions from a YouTube video in rapid German. The result was edible, which I consider a triumph. My partner's attempt at Rote Grutze, that red berry pudding they love up here, was less successful and ended up more soup than dessert. We ate it anyway, standing at the balcony rail, watching boats drift past and congratulating ourselves on our culinary bravery.

The local pub situation around Olpenitz is limited but charming. We found a proper Kneipe in Kappeln's old town, all dark wood and regulars who looked like they had been sitting there since the 1970s. The landlord pulled our beers with the gravity of a religious ceremony. No food served, just drinks and conversation and the occasional plate of nuts. We stayed for two hours and understood perhaps every third word of the surrounding chatter, but felt utterly welcome nonetheless.

By our final evening, our supplies had dwindled to emergency levels. We cobbled together a strange but satisfying meal: the last of the rye bread, some emergency tinned fish purchased in a panic, the final Flensburger, and a block of cheese that had developed a personality of its own. It was, in its way, perfect. We had come with grand cooking plans and ended up eating like students, but with a Baltic Sea sunset as our dining room. Some holidays are about the food you master. Others are about the food you survive, laugh about, and remember more fondly than anything perfect could ever be.