I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to board the wrong train at Schiphol. In my defence, the Dutch railway system is admirably efficient, which means every platform looks identical and every departure board moves faster than my brain after a 6am flight. I stood there clutching my suitcase, watching my actual train to Leiden pull away while I argued with a ticket inspector about whether "Noordwijk" sounded anything like "Nijmegen." Spoiler: it does not.

Two hours and one very patient platform announcement later, I arrived at the holiday home in Noordwijk feeling slightly less organised than I had imagined. The property sits in that pleasant coastal zone of Southern Holland where the air smells of pine and salt, and where every other resident seems to be cycling somewhere with tremendous purpose. I dumped my bags and immediately did what any sensible person would do: headed to the supermarket hungry, which is the culinary equivalent of going to the pub heartbroken.

The local Albert Heijn became my second home that week. I have never seen such orderly cheese. Rows of Gouda in every conceivable maturity, from "barely started living" to "older than some vintage wines." I bought three kinds on my first visit, plus something called "hagelslag" that I thought was a spice blend but turned out to be chocolate sprinkles for bread. This set the tone for my self-catering attempts, which ranged from genuinely decent to crimes against Dutch cuisine.

My first evening, I attempted to recreate the broodje haring I had seen advertised near the beach. The herring was excellent, purchased from a proper fishmonger on the main street where the man behind the counter spoke approximately eleven words of English and used all of them to express concern about my knife skills. I assembled my sandwich with the confidence of someone who had watched one YouTube video, took a photograph for posterity, and then spent twenty minutes picking raw onion out of my hair. The herring itself was sublime, melting and rich, but my presentation would have made any self-respecting Dutch grandmother weep into her apron.

Breakfast became my triumph. Each morning I cycled to the baker on Van Panhuysstraat, joining the queue of locals who clearly had standing orders and opinions about bread density. The broodjes came out warm, and I would balance two or three in my bicycle basket like precious cargo, praying the cobblestones would not launch them into the canal. Back at the house, I assembled elaborate spreads: aged Edam, young Edam, something blue that I never identified but respected, butter in quantities that would alarm a cardiologist, and proper Dutch stroopwafels balanced atop my coffee mug until the caramel softened. I ate on the small terrace in my dressing gown, watching neighbours walk dogs with the same purposeful cycling energy, feeling briefly like I belonged.

The local market on Wednesdays in the town centre tested my resolve and my wallet. I bought vegetables I could not name, pointed at sausages with hopeful optimism, and once accidentally purchased an enormous quantity of pickled herring because I misunderstood the pricing structure. The vendor seemed delighted. I ate pickled herring with every meal for three days, including once in an omelette that I will not discuss in polite company.

My most ambitious cooking attempt came on the Thursday. I had acquired fresh mussels from a coastal supplier, proper Dutch potatoes, and a recipe for stamppot that I had translated badly from a local cookbook. The mussels were straightforward enough, steamed open with white wine I was drinking anyway. The stamppot defeated me. I mashed the kale too long, undercooked the potatoes, and created something that looked like a failed science experiment but tasted, against all visual evidence, rather wonderful. I ate two portions standing at the kitchen counter in triumph, then spent the evening wondering why Dutch food has such an undeserved reputation abroad when I had just produced something edible from genuine disaster.

The local cafes saved me from myself on days when cooking felt like too much risk. I found a brown cafe near the old village where they served uitsmijter, that magnificent open sandwich with ham and fried eggs that makes any hangover survivable. The coffee came in small cups with a biscuit on the side, and the regulars watched football with the intensity I usually reserve for checking whether my sourdough has risen.

By my final morning, I had established routines. The baker knew my order without prompting. The supermarket cheese aisle felt familiar rather than intimidating. I packed leftover stroopwafels for the journey home, along with a wedge of aged Gouda that I told myself was for gifts but absolutely was not. My last breakfast on that terrace, watching the early cyclists with their own bread in their baskets, I felt that particular holiday sadness of leaving somewhere that has started to fit. I had arrived confused and hungry, and I was departing slightly confused, still hungry, but with considerably more cheese and a new appreciation for herring eaten properly, from a paper wrapper, by the sea, with no knife skills required at all.