Last November Martin Johansson was stressed out, losing sleep and fed up to the back teeth with his job in Copenhagen. It was time for a new start.

For the previous two years, the Johanssons' one source of comfort had been their holiday home on the tiny island of Møn in south-east Denmark. Martin decided that if he could could create an enjoyable job for himself on his beloved island, he would pack in his career in shipping regardless of the financial consequences.

Over Christmas, the Johanssons came up with a brainwave. As Martin's wife Kate is English, they would create their own purpose-built island holidays for the UK market. But how could they get started?

Out of the blue, I received an e-mail at the production office of Channel 4's Time Team that said: "You don't know us, but there's lots of archaeology (and plenty of other goodies) on our island. Would you like to come and road-test a holiday for us?" And as I had a few days free from filming, and as neither my girlfriend Heli or myself had ever been to Denmark, we took up the invitation.

After an hour's flight from London to Copenhagen, we were picked up and driven the rest of the way by the Johanssons, arriving on Møn at lunchtime. We spent the afternoon exploring. Most of Denmark is as flat as a Cambridgeshire pancake, but Møn is a beautiful island of low, rolling hills, sandy beaches and immaculate villages. Its forgotten territory, well out of the way of the great Scandinavian sea-routes, gave us a tantalising glimpse of how Denmark used to be.

Much of the island is untouched since the bronze age, which is why the archaeology is so good. But did I really want a five-day holiday looking at ancient sites when I'd spent nearly every waking hour of the past six months doing that for a living? I'd soon have to make my mind up as, that night, we were invited to the Johanssons' home to plan our itinerary.

But before the negotiations, the dinner; or rather the five-course banquet. Martin prepared us three kinds of marinated herring with rye bread, smoked eel with scrambled egg, gravlax, pork chateaubriand, meatballs, pickled marrow, pickled cucumber, and five different kinds of Danish cheese. I immediately fell in love with Høng, a creamy little brie-like number which swiftly dispelled any idea that Danish blue is the only cheese this nation knows anything about.

After a dangerously sweet-smelling liqueur, the photos and brochures were brought out, and we poured over the comparative merits of sailing, fishing, bird-watching, walking, trips off the island, bike and horse rides, and of course archaeology.

We were told we could engage in as much or as little strenuous activity as we wanted, and, although the Johanssons were prepared to be on hand whenever we wished, if we wanted simply to potter about on our own that would be fine, too. Eventually, after much discussion, Kate drove us back to our hotel sedated by a little more of their rather good dry Riesling.

Next morning, I had absolutely no memory of what we'd agreed to do, but whatever it was I was happy to do it. Surprise, surprise! It was archaeology. We were driven to the home of two of Martin's friends, a pair of knowledgeable amateur archaeologists, Carl and Lykke Schulz. Carl, a retired sea-captain, and Lykke, a former antique dealer, are a charming, dotty couple with very little English, but Martin translated as we wandered around their treasure trove of a home. There were antique pictures and tapestries everywhere, drawers piled high with beachcombed amber and trays covered with prehistoric hammerstones, flint blades, and beautiful 8,000-year-old Møn axes shaped like podgy CND signs.

Halfway through the morning a bag of Danish pastries was produced. I say Danish pastries, but Kate told us the Danes deny all responsibility for these lethal calorie grenades, blaming them instead on the Austro-Hungarian empire by referring to them as Vienna bread. We chomped away using the car bonnet as a table. The cakes had bizarre names - Spandau, chocolate snail, and, my favourite, a large square of flaky pastry with a circular depression in the centre filled with bright yellow custard and crumbly nuts, graphically entitled baker's bad eye.

Then, a real treat, a long ramble through a quiet beech forest to a deserted sandy beach, which Kate later nominated as her favourite walk. The forest floor was covered with anemones - it looked as though the entire forest had been afflicted by a bad case of floral dandruff. Martin told me in his straight-faced, Nordic way that the black adder, or snog as it's apparently known in Denmark, is common in these parts.

Later we found ourselves at Elmelunde Church. It's an extraordinary building crowned by a series of square, white steps ascending to heaven. It looks like some thing Lutyens might have designed as a first-world-war battle memorial, but it dates back to the 11th century. Inside, the ceilings explode with the colour of primitive frescoes from the early 16th century. They were painted by a brilliant, unknown artist, the Elmelunde Master, much of whose work is thought to lie buried beneath the white plaster of neighbouring churches. Before us was a fantastic biblical world of flowers, tiny trees and dreamy-eyed people with pale triangular faces. Even when they're being tortured in the bowels of hell, his characters maintain their blithe indifference. Only the twisted bodies and bleeding wounds give testament to the deeply unpleasant time to which they're being subjected.

But their agony didn't put us off our dinner. We were taken to an exquisitely-neat fishing village called Nyord on the north-west coast where the houses were painted in bright pastel pinks, blues and ochres. The restaurant was no more than a large family dining room full of customers. When we opened the door, all the diners stopped eating, stared at us for a few seconds, and chorused "Good evening!" Did we really look that English? We ate locally-caught plaice, fish soup, eel and boiled potatoes while a young child toddled from table to table being petted by everyone.

Other highlights included a trip to Møns Klint, an eerie whiter-than-white landscape of cliffs and bleached forest debris that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover as they would have been painted by Salvador Dali, and a stroll through the Klinteskoven, a large wooded area teetering on the edge of the chalk cliffs, which was once the home of the Klintholm gods. Even now it boasts weird shaped stones and deformed trees like something out of a Disney cartoon.

We visited wine expert Ole Holst, another friend of the Johanssons, whose importing company, Vinhuset Doktorbakken, is based in the middle of a small forest. Between slurps, we discussed the pros and cons of the euro, German tourists and the works of Ken Loach, and ended up buying gallons more than we'd intended.

And, of course, there was the archaeology. There are 173 passage graves, long barrows, cairns and bronze- age mounds on Møn - well worth a visit even if you aren't an archaeology freak.

The joy of the Johanssons' holiday plan is its flexibility. You can decide what you want to do before you go, once you are there, or during your holiday. You can stay in a hotel, self-cater, or inflict yourselves on the Johanssons or their friends. And because travel is so easy, our five-day holiday seemed like a genuine five days, not a snatched weekend. As for the weather, my preconceptions proved to be wide of the mark: we were there over the Easter weekend and, while England was in the grip of rain and icy winds, we spent five days basking in the spring sun.

The practicals

Go (www.go-fly.co.uk) flies from Stansted to Copenhagen from £50 return. Scandinavian Airlines flies from Heathrow, Gatwick, Stansted and Manchester from £110 return. Topsail Tours (0045 3929 1333, www.topsail.dk) has four nights' B&B at Møn from £299 per person based on two sharing, or £199pp for four people sharing a self-catering holiday home. Price includes travel to and from Copenhagen, but not flights from UK.