I have never been so relieved to see a cottage roof in all my life. After three hours of driving from Calais, my partner and I finally pulled into the lane leading to our Rendeux holiday let, only to discover that my carefully planned route had taken us through what I can only describe as a farmyard obstacle course. The sat nav, in its infinite wisdom, decided that a muddy track between two fields was definitely the main road. There was a moment, somewhere around the third pothole, where I genuinely wondered if we would need to ask a cow for directions. The cow, I should add, looked deeply unimpressed.

We arrived at the stone cottage in Rendeux with mud splattered up to the windows and my dignity in tatters. But the moment we stepped inside, the smell of wood polish and the sight of that enormous farmhouse kitchen made everything worthwhile. I am not exaggerating when I say I gasped. The oak beams, the proper range cooker, the wooden dining table that could seat twelve - I had already planned three dinner parties and it was only four in the afternoon.

The first mission was food, obviously. We dumped our bags and drove the five minutes into Rendeux village itself, which turned out to be charming in that slightly sleepy Belgian way. There is a small supermarket near the church, nothing flashy, but it had everything we needed for our first evening. I filled a basket with local cheeses, a fat sausage called saucisson d'Ardenne, some grey shrimp, and a bottle of Belgian beer I could not pronounce. My partner, ever practical, added butter, eggs, and bread. I accused him of lacking imagination. He reminded me that we needed breakfast. Fair point.

That first evening, I attempted to cook something impressive. The range cooker, which I had been eyeing like a new sports car, turned out to have opinions of its own. The oven ran hot, the hob had one ring that barely functioned, and I managed to set off the smoke alarm twice. Our planned elegant supper of pan-fried shrimp with garlic butter became something more closely resembling charcoal with a side of slightly melted cheese. We ate it anyway, sitting at that massive table with candles from the drawer and more of that unpronounceable beer. It was absolutely delicious, though I say so myself, and not just because we were starving.

The next morning, properly rested, we found the local market in La Roche-en-Ardenne, which is only a few miles away. This is where I became slightly emotional, I will admit. The stalls of fresh produce, the local honey, the cured meats hanging from hooks - it was everything I wanted from a Belgian market. I bought far too much, as is my way. A wheel of Rochefort cheese that weighed approximately the same as a small dog. More saucisson, because one can never have enough. Fresh eggs with actual dirt still on them. My partner raised an eyebrow at my haul but wisely said nothing.

We found a pub for lunch, a dark little place on the corner near the river. The landlord spoke about four words of English and my French extends barely beyond ordering wine, but we managed. I pointed at a chalkboard, he nodded, and what arrived was a steaming bowl of boulets, those famous Liege meatballs in tomato sauce, with proper frites on the side. The meatballs were the size of tennis balls, the sauce was rich and sweet, and the frites were crispy in that way only Belgian frites ever are. We sat there for two hours, eating slowly and watching the locals come and go.

That evening, chastened by my previous cooking disaster, I attempted something simpler. Just good bread, good cheese, good sausage, and a salad I actually managed not to ruin. We ate at the kitchen table with the windows open, listening to nothing much at all except birds and the occasional tractor. It was, I realised, exactly what I needed. No elaborate recipe required, no performance, just simple food in a beautiful place with time to actually taste it.

The rest of the week followed this pattern. Mornings at the market or the little bakery in Rendeux for fresh croissants that shattered when you bit them. Afternoons exploring, working up an appetite. Evenings cooking with varying degrees of success, or finding another local pub when I admitted defeat. There was one memorable meal in a restaurant in Hotton where I ordered what I thought was rabbit and received something that was definitely not rabbit, though I never quite established what. I ate it anyway. When in Belgium, as they say.

By the end of the week, I had finally mastered that range cooker, or at least reached an understanding with it. My last attempt, a proper tartiflette with Reblochon from the market, was genuinely good. My partner photographed it, which has never happened before. We ate it with local cider and felt extremely pleased with ourselves, two people who had arrived mud-splattered and confused and were leaving slightly heavier and significantly more relaxed.

I still cannot pronounce that beer, mind. Some things never change.