I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey from Copenhagen Airport to our little cottage in Skateholm had been going swimmingly until we hit the outskirts of Trelleborg, where my other half decided he knew better than Google and took what he called "a scenic shortcut." Three wrong turns, one deeply confused sheep, and twenty minutes of bickering later, we finally found ourselves crunching down the gravel drive of what would be our home for the week.

The cottage itself was instantly forgiving. A proper red wooden affair with white trim, the sort you see on postcards and assume cannot possibly be real. I practically fell out of the car, stretched my legs, and immediately began planning what I would eat first. This, I should clarify, was not unusual behaviour for me, but something about that clean Skane air had my stomach making executive decisions without consulting my brain.

The kitchen, as it turned out, would become the true hero of our holiday. Compact but surprisingly well-equipped, with a proper hob and oven that looked like it had seen some action. I unpacked our bags with the enthusiasm of a contestant on one of those cooking shows, laying out the provisions we had grabbed at a supermarket in Trelleborg. Local potatoes, still dusty with earth. A tub of fresh dill that filled the whole room with its proper, punchy scent. Some smoked fish I could not properly identify but purchased based on sheer optimism. And eggs, because I refuse to travel anywhere without the means to make a decent omelette.

That first evening, I attempted what I grandly termed "an authentic Swedish supper." The reality was somewhat less impressive. My potatoes took on a texture I can only describe as "educational," and the smoked fish, which I had assumed was ready to eat, turned out to require considerably more preparation than my hunger would allow. We ended up with eggs on toast, which my other half ate with the patient expression of a man who has learned to manage his expectations. I sat there, slightly deflated, staring at my failure of a feast and wondering if the locals would somehow sense my culinary inadequacy through the walls.

Morning brought redemption in the form of Trelleborg's market. We wandered down early, slightly bleary, and found ourselves in a proper working market rather than some tourist trap. An elderly gentleman was selling strawberries so ripe they were practically begging to be eaten before we got home. I bought three punnets, which even I recognised as excessive, plus some proper Skane cheese from a woman who spoke approximately four words of English and communicated mostly through expressive hand gestures and samples. The cheese was sharp and nutty and nothing like the bland blocks I usually grabbed from Tesco.

Back at the cottage, I became obsessed with cooking properly. I made a potato salad with those earthy new potatoes, plenty of dill, and a dressing I improvised from mustard, oil, and the last of some local vinegar I found in the cupboard. It was, against all odds, genuinely delicious. We ate it on the little wooden deck with the strawberries for pudding, watching the light do that slow, golden Skane thing it does in the evenings. My other half went back for thirds, which I decided to take as a formal apology for his sat nav scepticism.

By midweek, I had developed something of a routine. Morning trip to Trelleborg for supplies, if needed. Otherwise, rummaging through what we had and building meals from there. I attempted gravad lax using some salmon from a fish van that appeared near the harbour, though I suspect my curing technique would make a Swede weep. It tasted decent enough after a couple of days in the fridge, and we ate it with more of those market potatoes and a sauce I made from mustard and something I cannot now identify. The cottage's little kitchen had become my kingdom, and I ruled it with increasing confidence and decreasing precision.

One evening, feeling particularly ambitious, I tried to recreate a proper Skane apple cake I had read about. The apples came from a honesty box down the lane, small and slightly blemished and absolutely packed with flavour. My attempt collapsed somewhat in the middle, emerging from the oven as what I termed "rustic." We ate it anyway, warm with cream, and it was the sort of simple pleasure that makes you slightly embarrassed about the elaborate meals you fuss over at home.

The local bread became another obsession. A bakery in Trelleborg did a dark, dense rye that I initially bought for authenticity's sake and quickly became genuinely addicted to. It made the best toast imaginable, particularly when loaded with that market cheese and some of the excellent local butter I found at a farm shop. Breakfasts stretched into proper events, second cups of coffee becoming mandatory rather than optional.

By our final day, I had accumulated a small collection of half-used ingredients and good intentions. I made one last market run for more strawberries, because leaving Skane without a final taste seemed genuinely foolish. We ate them simply, with nothing added, sitting on that same deck where I had salvaged my pride after the smoked fish disaster.

I left the cottage with a slightly expanded waistline, a notebook full of barely legible recipes, and a new appreciation for letting local ingredients do the heavy lifting. My cooking had not become technically brilliant over that week, but it had become simpler, more responsive, more genuinely enjoyable. The sat nav remained in the car, unthrown, though I made sure my other half programmed the route home himself.