I should have known the satnav was up to no good when it tried to send us through a vineyard. There we were, me and my other half, bouncing along a dirt track in our hire car with a boot full of shopping from the supermarche in Valreas, convinced we were taking the scenic route to our holiday home in Grignan. The scenic route turned out to be someone's private field. Cue a three-point turn of shame while a local chap leaned on his gate, watching with the kind of amused patience you only find in rural France. I waved apologetically. He raised his wine glass. Fair play to him.

We finally found the proper road and pulled up to the stone house as the afternoon sun was doing that lovely golden thing across the lavender. First impressions? Properly gorgeous. Terracotta tiles, wooden shutters, that faint smell of herbs and hot stone that makes you immediately slower of step and fuller of breath. The key was where promised, and we fumbled our way in, dumping bags and exclaiming at beamed ceilings and a kitchen that actually looked like someone cooked in it rather than just photographed it for a catalogue.

Speaking of which, the kitchen became my immediate obsession. I am not, by any stretch, a confident cook. My usual repertoire at home runs to pasta with things stirred through it and the occasional optimistic curry. But something about being in France, surrounded by all that Provencal produce, makes a person dangerously ambitious. Within an hour of arrival, I had unpacked my market haul onto the wooden counter: a soft, oozing Reblochon, saucisson sec that smelled properly of pepper and time, tomatoes still warm from the sun, and a bottle of Cotes du Rhone that I had selected entirely based on the label looking suitably rustic.

We ate that first meal on the terrace as the light faded, and I felt genuinely smug. The cheese had gone runny in the heat, the bread was slightly squashed from my overenthusiastic squeezing at the market, and I had forgotten to buy proper butter. But sitting there with my feet up, glass in hand, watching swallows dart about, I could not have cared less. This was exactly the sort of moment I had imagined, reality be damned.

The next morning, ambition struck again. There is a small market in Grignan itself on certain days, and I had determined to cook a proper daube de boeuf, that slow-braised beef dish that the Rhone-Alpes does so well. I marched down to the village, map clutched like a talisman, and promptly got lost in the winding lanes. Grignan is not large, but it is determinedly medieval in its layout, all narrow passages and sudden views of the chateau perched above. I found the market eventually, more by smell than navigation, and spent a happy forty minutes being very serious about selecting the right cut of beef from a butcher who tolerated my dreadful French with good grace.

Back at the house, I set about my culinary project with the kind of focus I rarely muster for anything useful. The recipe I had found online mentioned anchovies and orange peel among the usual suspects, which seemed either inspired or completely barking. I went with it, mostly because I had already bought the ingredients and the nearest shop was a trek. The house filled with the smell of wine, garlic, and slowly melting beef, and I pottered about feeling profoundly domestic, occasionally stirring and sipping the leftover wine with growing contentment.

By evening, the daube was ready, and we took our bowls out to the terrace again. Was it perfect? Not remotely. The orange peel had gone slightly bitter, and I had been too cautious with the salt. But the beef was tender enough to cut with a fork, the sauce rich and dark, and we mopped it up with bread and made appreciative noises that were at least three-quarters genuine. My other half, who knows my cooking limitations intimately, pronounced it "actually really good," which from him is the highest possible praise.

The pub situation in Grignan itself is not exactly what a Brit might expect, there is no cosy local with hand-pulled ale and a dartboard. Instead, there are small bars and cafes where you stand at the counter for an espresso or a pastis, and perhaps a plate of charcuterie if you are lucky. I grew rather fond of one such place near the chateau, where the barman would greet me with a knowing nod by day three, as if acknowledging my persistent but cheerful foreignness. I never quite mastered the art of the quick counter drink, always lingering too long, watching the village go about its business.

Our evenings quickly settled into a rhythm of cooking attempts, terrace dining, and the occasional walk down to the village for a nightcap. I tried my hand at a tarte tatin one evening, using apples from a nearby farm stall, and created something that was definitely caramelised, though whether intentionally so remained debatable. We ate it anyway, with creme fraiche that I had remembered to buy this time, and laughed about the burnt bits.

What I loved most, I think, was the sense of feeding oneself into a place. Each trip to a market, each slightly wonky meal prepared in that welcoming kitchen, each conversation attempted with shopkeepers and stallholders, it all layered up into something that felt like genuine connection rather than mere tourism. I left Grignan with a notebook full of half-legible recipes, a slightly expanded waistline, and the firm intention to attempt that daube again at home, though I suspect without the same sun-drenched terrace and the same forgiving company, it will never taste quite as it should.