I have never been so relieved to see a set of traffic lights as I was when we finally rolled into Beauraing. Three hours from Calais, two wrong turns around Charleroi, and one spectacular argument about whether I had packed the travel adaptor or merely imagined doing so. Spoiler: I had imagined it. We arrived at the stone cottage with my phone on four percent, my partner refusing to speak to me, and a boot full of melting ice cream I had optimistically bought at a Carrefour somewhere near Mons.

The cottage itself sorted our mood within minutes. Thick walls, wooden beams you could probably hang a swing from, and a kitchen that made me immediately want to attempt something ambitious. I say attempt. You will soon see how that went.

We had planned to eat out properly the first night, but the ice cream situation demanded attention. I stood in that farmhouse kitchen, surrounded by proper equipment - heavy pans, a decent knife block, a hob that actually responded when you turned the dial - and decided I would cook. The village shop provided eggs, butter, and some rather excellent local bacon. The result? An omelette of such profound mediocrity that my partner, now speaking to me again, described it as "structurally interesting." The bread from the boulangerie two streets over was the real hero. We ate it with salted butter and apologised to nobody.

Breakfast became our thing. Each morning I would walk down to that boulangerie, usually before eight when the village was still deciding whether to wake up. The woman behind the counter began recognising my terrible French and would simply hand me the pain complet without the conversational preamble. By day four I was practically a local, or so I told myself while eating an entire loaf with jam made from Beauraing cherries.

The market in Beauraing itself, held on Friday mornings, became our weekly pilgrimage. Not enormous, nothing touristy about it. A man selling cheese from Rochefort, which is close enough to count as local and far enough to feel like discovery. Sausages that we grilled badly on the cottage's small terrace, drinking beer I had chosen entirely based on the attractiveness of the label. This is a valid selection method in Belgium, where even mediocre beer outperforms most countries' best efforts.

We found our pub, because every British person needs one. Le Relais de Beauraing, nothing fancy, wooden tables and a television showing football I did not understand. The landlord spoke English better than I spoke anything, which was humbling, and recommended a Floreffe blonde that I then drank for three consecutive evenings. The food was simple - croque monsieur, stoemp with sausage, once a waterzooi that I ordered purely to say the word aloud. Heavy, comforting, the sort of cooking that makes you want a nap in a chair.

The cooking attempts continued, of course. I bought endive at that Friday market, having read somewhere that Belgians do wonderful things with it. I did not do wonderful things with it. I created something bitter and slightly alarming that even the local cheese could not rescue. We laughed about it over more bread, more butter, another bottle of something from the cave around the corner that sold wine with handwritten labels.

By our final evening I had settled into a comfortable rhythm. No more ambition, just good ingredients treated simply. We ate bread and cheese and ham on the terrace, watching the light change over the Ardennes hills that cup the village. The ice cream incident felt like weeks ago. My partner had forgiven me, mostly, though the travel adaptor was mentioned once more when we packed.

I left Beauraing slightly heavier, considerably happier, and with a new appreciation for eating simply and often. The omelettes had improved marginally. My French had not. But the boulangerie woman waved goodbye, and that felt like accomplishment enough.