I should have known the holiday was going to be an adventure when the sat-nav decided "Plouguerneau" was a suggestion rather than a destination. We spent a good forty minutes circling what I now believe was the same roundabout near Brest, me insisting we follow the signs, my other half insisting the robot voice knew better. Turns out neither of us was right, and we accidentally discovered a Lidl car park that will haunt my dreams. Still, we arrived eventually, slightly frazzled and in desperate need of a drink.

The cottage itself was one of those proper Breton stone affairs, all thick walls and shutters that actually shut. The key was in a lockbox that required the dexterity of a safecracker and the patience of a saint, but the moment we stumbled through the door, the smell hit us. Not the musty holiday-let whiff I had braced for, but something genuinely inviting. The previous guests, it transpired, had left behind a bottle of cider and a note wishing us "bon appetit." I nearly wept with gratitude.

By then it was half past eight and the supermarkets were shut, so we did what any sensible British person would do: drove the five minutes to the nearest bar and hoped for the best. We found a place on the edge of Plouguerneau village, nothing fancy, plastic chairs and a television showing football with the sound off. I ordered a crepe complete, expecting something modest, and received a buckwheat pancake the size of a dinner plate, folded around ham, cheese, and an egg that was somehow still perfectly runny. My partner went for the galette saucisse, which is essentially a sausage wrapped in a pancake, and I spent the entire meal making pointed comments about sophistication while secretly coveting every bite.

The next morning we hit the Plouguerneau market, which sets up near the church on certain days and is the sort of affair where you buy things you do not need because an elderly woman with formidable eyebrows has shamed you into it. We came away with a wheel of cheese that smelled like feet, a string of garlic, tomatoes that actually tasted of something, and a fish called something unpronounceable that I was absolutely going to cook perfectly. The fishmonger cleaned it for me, which was fortunate, as my butchery skills extend to opening a packet of bacon and no further.

That evening I attempted something I had seen on a programme once. The kitchen in the cottage was surprisingly well-equipped, which I took as a challenge rather than a convenience. There was a moment, standing over a pan with butter foaming and garlic threatening to burn, when I understood why people write entire books about French cooking. The fish, I am proud to report, was edible. More than edible, actually. We ate it with the tomatoes sliced roughly, good bread from the boulangerie two minutes away, and enough white wine to make us philosophical about the roundabout incident.

The local creperie became something of a second home. We went back three times in a week, which feels excessive until you have tasted a galette with andouille sausage and caramelised onions. The owner started recognising us, which I chose to interpret as affection rather than pity. There was a restaurant in Lannilis, barely ten minutes away, where we had moules frites one lunchtime, the mussels plump and salty, the chips somehow both crispy and fluffy in that way only the French seem to manage.

I did try to cook again, attempting a kouign-amann from a recipe I found in a drawer. The result was less pastry, more buttery paving slab, but we ate it anyway, standing in the kitchen at midnight, picking at the caramelised edges and laughing at our own pretensions. That is the thing about staying somewhere like Plouguerneau. You arrive thinking you will be transformed into some rustic gourmet, and you leave simply grateful for people who know what they are doing, and for kitchens that forgive your ambitions.