I have never been someone who reads directions properly, and this time it really bit me. I had spent the morning driving from Calais with a boot full of groceries I was convinced would make me look like a competent holiday cook, only to realise somewhere past Namur that I had been pronouncing "Burg Reuland" wrong in my head for weeks. It is not "Berg Reel-and," apparently. The sat nav lady corrected me with her usual disappointed tone, and I arrived in the village of Burg Reuland feeling already slightly defeated and very hungry.

The property itself is a handsome stone house in the Ardennes, right on the edge of Liege province, and I will admit my first thought was less about the beams and more about whether the oven worked. I had grand plans. A Belgian beef stew, maybe. Some proper frites. I had even packed a bottle of Westmalle Dubbel that I had told myself was "for the sauce" but which I opened approximately eleven minutes after unloading the car. The first sip tasted like relief and mild humiliation in equal measure.

The kitchen was better equipped than I deserved, which immediately made me feel worse about my shopping. I had bought British cheddar, for heaven's sake. British cheddar in Belgium. What was I thinking? The local shops in Burg Reuland proper are small but serious about their produce. I walked to a butcher on the main street the next morning, still slightly fuzzy from the Dubbel, and managed to order what I think was pork shoulder by pointing and nodding like a malfunctioning dashboard toy. The butcher was patient. I think he has seen my type before.

That evening I attempted a carbonnade flamande using a recipe I found on my phone with one bar of signal. The beer went in, the onions went in, I got distracted by the garden and let it reduce too far. It was edible. It was not good. I ate it on the terrace with another beer and told myself this was character building. The garden smelled of cut grass and woodsmoke from somewhere down the valley, and I decided that atmosphere counts for at least forty percent of any meal.

The village pub, Le Relais du Beaumont, saved me from myself on the third night. It is the sort of place where the menu is written on a chalkboard and nobody rushes you. I had a jambon d'Ardenne that was so much better than my efforts it was almost offensive, followed by a tarte au riz that I still think about in weak moments. The barman spoke enough English to laugh at my pronunciation of "Orval" and I took that as friendship. We talked about football, badly, and he recommended a fromagerie in Reuland itself, about ten minutes up the road.

I went the next morning. The cheese shop was closed because of course it was, this being rural Belgium and me being me. But the bakery next door was open, and I bought a loaf of pain de campagne that was still warm and a pot of local honey that I ate with a spoon later that afternoon while pretending to read a book.

By the end of the week I had stopped pretending to be a cook and settled into a comfortable rhythm of market mornings, pub evenings, and cheese-based lunches that required no heat and no ambition. I found a small shop in Reuland that sold saucisson d'Ardenne and made a habit of it. The owner started recognising me, which felt like an achievement of sorts.

On my final night I attempted one last meal in the house. Pasta with butter and the last of the market cheese. No recipe. No beer in the sauce, unless you count the one I drank while making it. It was probably the best thing I cooked all week, though that says more about the cheese than my skills. I ate it looking out at the same garden, same woodsmoke, same fading light, and felt genuinely sad to be leaving.

I drove home with an empty boot and a full stomach, already planning when I could return. Next time I will skip the British cheddar. Next time I might even learn to say "Burg Reuland" correctly before I arrive. But probably not.