I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I got my first whiff of Lauwersoog before I even saw it. Not the bracing sea air or the promise of fresh fish I'd been dreaming about, mind you, but the unmistakable aroma of the cheese I'd carefully selected in Groningen city centre, now liberally smeared across the passenger seat of my hire car. I'd braked too hard at a roundabout, the paper bag had surrendered its contents, and my carefully planned first supper of aged Noord-Hollandse Edam and crusty bread was now more of a Jackson Pollock installation across the upholstery.

Still, I arrived at the holiday home with an empty stomach and a newfound determination to let food define this trip entirely. The property sat right where the Lauwersmeer meets the Wadden Sea, and I could smell the salt and something else too, something that made my stomach rumble despite the cheese catastrophe. I dumped my bags, ignored the faint dairy whiff following me from the car, and headed straight for the harbour.

The fish stalls at Lauwersoog harbour are not to be approached casually. I learned this when I pointed at something silvery and asked the woman behind the counter what it was. She looked at me as if I'd asked whether water was wet. "Vismarkt Lauwersoog," she said, gesturing broadly, "best herring in the north." I bought four fillets of something I'd never heard of, a tub of smoked eel that cost more than my parking, and a bag of kibbeling that I started eating before I'd even found my way back to the car park. The batter was still crackling hot, the fish inside like velvet, and I stood there like a complete tourist, grease on my chin, watching the boats come in with their afternoon catch.

That first evening I attempted to cook my harbour haul in the holiday home's kitchen, which was better equipped than my own flat back in Manchester. The herring I planned to pickle myself, because apparently three hours in a place makes you an expert. I found a recipe on my phone, bought vinegar and spices from the little supermarket in nearby Zoutkamp, and proceeded to create something that tasted predominantly of regret and allspice. The smoked eel, thankfully, required no intervention. I ate it on dark bread with butter, standing at the window, watching the light change over the water. Sometimes the best cooking is no cooking at all.

The next morning I discovered the Saturday market in Zoutkamp, a proper working market where I bought vegetables that still had soil on them and cheese that the vendor let me sample until I felt embarrassed and bought far too much. I spent the afternoon attempting stamppot, that Dutch mash of potatoes and greens, using kale so fresh it practically sang. My version was lumpy, underseasoned, and absolutely enormous because I'd bought potatoes with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never seen a carbohydrate before. I ate it for three meals running, each time telling myself it was improving with age. It was not.

By day four I'd established a rhythm. Morning coffee at the harbour, watching the fishing boats unload. Lunch from whatever stall took my fancy, kibbeling again or sometimes a broodje haring if I was feeling brave. Then back to the holiday home to attempt something ambitious for dinner, usually failing in some minor but edible way. I made a fish soup that was decent, a potato dish that was criminal, and one evening I simply gave up and ate bread, cheese, and tomatoes on the decking, which was probably the best meal of the entire trip.

The local supermarket in Lauwersoog itself became my second home. Small, determinedly practical, staffed by people who remembered me from my previous cheese-related disaster and seemed mildly impressed by my persistence. I bought their ready-made salads, their surprisingly good bread, and on my final day, a cake from the bakery section that I ate entirely by myself while packing, feeling both triumphant and slightly sick.

What I learned, I suppose, is that self-catering is really self-teaching. Each burnt pan, each overambitious recipe, each moment of standing in a foreign supermarket wondering what on earth you're looking at, it's all part of the same lesson. The food of a place isn't just what you eat in restaurants or find in markets, it's what you make of it yourself, literally, in a kitchen that isn't yours, with ingredients you're still learning to recognise.

I left Lauwersoog with my car still faintly cheesy, a new appreciation for smoked eel, and a resolution to master Dutch potato dishes before I return. The herring in my fridge at home, properly pickled this time by someone who actually knows how, tastes of the harbour and the mornings and the particular peace of cooking badly but with genuine enthusiasm.