I have never been brilliant with directions, so the fact that I ended up in the wrong village entirely before reaching our holiday cottage in Rendeux should surprise absolutely no one. There I was, smugly pulling up to what I thought was our charming stone cottage, only to realise I had driven twenty minutes past it and was now awkwardly blocking a farmer's drive in a hamlet that definitely was not on my booking confirmation. The farmer, bless him, found it all hilarious and sent me back with a wave and what I am fairly certain was gentle mockery in Walloon.

When I finally arrived at the proper cottage in Rendeux, I was ravenous and slightly humbled. The place itself was exactly what you want from an Ardennes stay: solid stone walls, wooden beams that have seen decades of Belgian winters, and a kitchen that immediately made me ambitious. I had grand plans. I was going to cook proper local food, embrace the regional ingredients, become the sort of person who casually whips up a carbonnade flamande without breaking a sweat.

My first morning, I drove the short distance to La Roche-en-Ardenne's weekly market. It was a Saturday, bustling without being overwhelming, and I filled my basket like a man possessed. Fresh eggs with soil still clinging to them, a hefty slab of Ardennes ham that the vendor sliced with theatrical precision, local cheese that smelled properly assertive, and vegetables that actually looked like they had grown somewhere recognisable. I even bought a bottle of local beer from a small stall, because when in Belgium, one must commit fully to the bit.

Back at the cottage, I attempted my first proper meal. The kitchen was well-equipped, which should have helped, but my carbonnade ambitions quickly revealed my limitations. I had the beef, the beer, the onions, the lot. What I produced was not technically bad, but it was not carbonnade either. It was more of a beef-and-beer stew that had gone slightly wrong in the seasoning. My partner ate it with the determined politeness of someone who loves me but is questioning my culinary hubris. We opened a second bottle of beer and agreed that the fault lay in the altitude, or perhaps the humidity.

The local pubs saved me from myself. That evening we walked to a small establishment in Rendeux proper, nothing fancy, just a proper Belgian café with wooden furniture and a beer list that required serious study. I had a Rochefort 8 with a simple croque monsieur, and it was perfect. The sort of perfect that makes you wonder why you bother cooking at all. The barman was friendly in that understated way, happy to recommend another beer when I finished, and we ended up staying far longer than planned, watching the light fade over the village and feeling thoroughly content with our holiday decision.

The next day I tried again with the cooking, but more modestly this time. Breakfast was a triumph: local bread, the Ardennes ham, cheese, eggs I fried without incident. We ate on the small terrace, watching mist lift from the surrounding hills, and I felt genuinely accomplished. Lunch was a picnic assembled from market remnants, eaten during a gentle walk along the Ourthe river, which runs close by. Dinner, though, dinner I conceded to the professionals. We found another local spot, this one with a slightly more formal dining room, and I had trout that had presumably been swimming quite recently, simply prepared with butter and herbs. My partner had a game terrine that they described with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for major life events.

By our third day, I had developed a comfortable rhythm. Morning market or bakery run, a simple lunch at the cottage or packed for walking, and evenings split between my own increasingly adequate attempts and the welcoming pubs and restaurants within easy reach. I made a respectable tartiflette one night, having found proper Reblochon at the market, though I will admit to some creative interpretation with the recipe. We ate it with more of that excellent local beer, feeling very pleased with ourselves and slightly too full.

What I loved most, looking back, was how the food and the pubs anchored the whole experience. The cottage kitchen became a place of gentle experimentation and occasional minor disasters, while the local eating spots offered that wonderful Belgian combination of unpretentious quality and genuine hospitality. I never quite mastered the carbonnade, but I did become someone who could confidently order a beer in French without panicking, and who understood that sometimes the best holiday meals are the ones someone else cooks while you sit back and appreciate where you are.

On our final morning, I made one last market trip for supplies to take home. More ham, more cheese, a bottle of local liqueur I had sampled in the pub and immediately decided I needed in my life. The farmer who had directed me on that first day was there, and I thanked him with what I hoped was good-humoured grace. He remembered me, of course he did, and we shared a laugh at my expense that felt properly Belgian.

Driving away, supplies packed carefully, I reflected on my culinary failures and successes with the clarity that distance provides. The carbonnade had defeated me, but the pubs had welcomed me, the markets had inspired me, and the cottage kitchen had tolerated my experiments without complaint. It was, in the end, exactly the sort of food-focused holiday I needed: one that reminded me that enthusiasm counts for a great deal, that Belgian beer genuinely is as good as everyone claims, and that there is no shame in letting professionals handle the complicated bits while you focus on buying excellent cheese and not getting lost quite so badly next time.