I should have known the sat nav was up to no good when it started pronouncing Montredon-Labessonnie with the confidence of a man who has never left Slough. Three hours from Toulouse airport, the roads narrowed to ribbons through sunflower fields, and I found myself down a farm track arguing with a goat about right of way. The goat won. I reversed two hundred metres of dusty embarrassment to find the actual turning, cheeks burning, only to discover the owners had seen the whole thing from their terrace. "Happens every week," they said, handing me a glass of rose that tasted like forgiveness.

The cottage itself was proper old stone, all beams and uneven floors that sent me stumbling like I'd already had three of those roses. The kitchen though, that was where I fell in love. A proper range cooker, copper pans hanging like trophies, and a larder that smelled of dried herbs and previous summers. I had grand plans, me. I'd cook like a local, shop like a local, be the sort of person who casually produces a cassoulet on a Tuesday.

The village market was my first test, held Thursday mornings in the square at Montredon-Labessonnie itself. I arrived with empty bags and dangerous ambition. The duck confit man recognised my accent immediately and started explaining cuts with the patience of a man explaining gravity to a toddler. I nodded along, bought twice what I needed, and spent ten minutes trying to ask for "a bit of that smelly cheese" in my school French. The fromager's wife took pity and gave me a slice of Rocamadour that practically walked home on its own. I also acquired saucisse sec that hung in my kitchen like a delicious threat, and vegetables still warm from someone's garden.

That first evening I attempted a tarte tatin. The apples came from the market, the recipe from a water-stained book in the cottage. What emerged from the oven was less French patisserie, more volcanic event. I ate it anyway, standing at the counter with a spoon, telling myself the burnt bits added character. The local wine helped with that fiction enormously.

The nearest proper pub experience, if you can call it that in rural France, was the bar-tabac in the next village, all of three miles away. Le Petit something-or-other, I never quite caught the name. Dark wood, pastis drinkers playing cards at midday, and a landlady who remembered my order by the third visit. I ate steak frites there when my cooking confidence collapsed, which was often. The frites were always perfect, the steak cooked with that French indifference to your preference that somehow still delivers exactly what you wanted.

I did better with simpler things. Breakfast became my triumph. Market bread, proper butter, cherry jam from a grandmotherly woman who sold from her front door. Coffee on the terrace watching mist lift from fields, feeling briefly like someone who had their life together. The saucisse sec I sliced thin with increasing competence, though never without the nagging fear I'd lose a fingertip to enthusiasm.

The Saturday market at Caussade, slightly further afield but worth the drive, tested my resolve further. Truffles in season, which I couldn't afford and wouldn't know what to do with anyway. I bought a tiny jar of truffle honey instead, feeling simultaneously extravagant and foolish. It sat in the larder for three days before I drizzled it on goat's cheese and felt, momentarily, like I understood something profound about pleasure.

My cassoulet attempt came on the final Friday. I had gathered ingredients across the week like a squirrel preparing for winter. The haricots blancs soaked overnight. The confit duck sat waiting with the patience of preserved meat. I followed the recipe with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert, and what emerged was... actually decent. Not grandmother decent, not restaurant decent, but recognisably cassoulet. I ate two bowls, drank most of a bottle of Madiran, and fell asleep on the sofa with my socks still on.

The owners found me there the next morning, apparently, when they popped round with fresh eggs. I have no memory of this. The eggs made excellent omelettes for lunch, eaten in humbled silence.

I left with a boot full of saucisse, that truffle honey, and a new respect for people who make cooking look effortless. The sat nav tried to send me past the goat again on departure. I took the longer route, dignity somewhat restored, already planning what I'd cook differently next time.