I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I got my first whiff of Livarot cheese somewhere near Caen and promptly missed my turning. There I was, navigating a hire car the size of a small barge through lanes designed for horse-drawn carts, Google Maps having what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown. I ended up in someone's farmyard, surrounded by curious Norman cows who seemed deeply unimpressed by my reversing skills. The farmer, bless him, just pointed and laughed. I laughed too, eventually, once I'd stopped sweating.

The property itself, when I finally found it, sat tucked between rolling hills that looked almost suspiciously perfect, like a postcard that had been left out in the sun too long. A converted farmhouse with timber beams and walls thick enough to withstand a siege, it smelled of woodsmoke and something faintly apple-ish from the Calvados distillery down the lane. My first job was the food shop, because I'd made the classic error of arriving on a Sunday when French supermarkets operate on what I can only call "existential hours."

Monday morning found me at the Livarot market, which is less a market and more a religious experience for anyone who likes their cheese assertive and their cider eye-wateringly dry. I bought bread from a woman who judged my pronunciation of "baguette tradition" with the severity of an exam invigilator, and came away with a wheel of Pont-l'Eveque that I had absolutely no business purchasing in that quantity. The fromager asked if I was having a party. I said yes, which was a lie, but it felt less pathetic than admitting I intended to eat it alone in my pants.

The cottage kitchen was properly equipped, which was both a blessing and a curse. I had visions of myself as some rustic French cook, preparing elaborate Norman dishes with ingredients I'd foraged personally. Reality arrived swiftly. My first attempt at chicken Normandy involved so much cream that I briefly considered calling a cardiologist, and I managed to set off the smoke alarm trying to flambe apples for a tarte tatin. The apples were supposed to catch fire elegantly. My eyebrows were not. I ate the slightly scorched result standing at the kitchen counter, drinking cider straight from the bottle, and I cannot pretend it wasn't absolutely magnificent.

The local pub, if you can call it that, was a small auberge ten minutes walk away where the proprietor spoke approximately twelve words of English and I speak approximately twelve words of French, none of them useful. We communicated through the universal language of pointing at things and making appreciative noises. I ate andouillette sausage there one evening, which tastes exactly how you would expect a sausage made from intestines to taste, and I finished every bite out of sheer stubbornness and several glasses of wine. The proprietor seemed to respect this, or possibly pity it. He brought me a Calvados on the house, which I suspect was either congratulations or an attempt to finish me off.

By the end of the week, my fridge contained nothing but cheese in various states of aggression, half a tarte tatin that had collapsed into something more honest, and enough cider to float a small boat. I had cooked badly, eaten gloriously, and learned that Norman butter is not merely an ingredient but a way of life. I left with my clothes tighter, my eyebrows slightly asymmetrical, and absolutely no regrets whatsoever.