I should have known the satnav was up to no good when it tried to send us through a field just outside Annecy. Three hours from Lyon airport, crammed into a hire car with enough luggage for a month, and there we were, bumping along what was definitely a tractor path while my other half muttered something about trusting technology. The "shortcut" cost us forty minutes and a small dent in the front bumper where a particularly enthusiastic gatepost got involved. By the time we finally spotted the sign for Talloires-Montmin, I was ready to eat my own shoe.

The property itself, when we finally found it, made the chaos worthwhile. A traditional stone place with wooden shutters that looked like they'd seen a few French summers, perched with that ridiculous Lake Annecy view that makes you forget you were swearing at a satnav not twenty minutes before. But I'll be honest - my first priority wasn't the view. It was the fact that we were starving, and I'd promised to cook that evening.

The village of Talloires is small enough that you can't really get lost, which was fortunate given our earlier performance. We wandered down to find somewhere to stock up, and stumbled upon what I can only describe as my spiritual home - a fromagerie that smelled like actual heaven. I came out with a comte that was apparently aged for eighteen months, some reblochon that the woman behind the counter insisted was "tres typique," and a soft cheese I couldn't pronounce that oozed in the most alarming way when we got it home. Also a baguette that I ate a third of before we'd even walked back up the hill. My partner gave me that look. You know the one.

That first evening, I attempted what I grandly called a "simple alpine supper." The kitchen in the property was decent - proper gas hob, decent knives, none of that holiday-rental nonsense where you're trying to chop an onion with a blade that's seen better days. I had my cheeses, some local ham I'd grabbed from a charcuterie, tomatoes that actually tasted of something. The plan was tartiflette, because when in Rhone-Alpes, obviously. I had the potatoes, the reblochon, the lardons. What I did not have, in my infinite wisdom, was a dish deep enough. The result was less tartiflette, more cheesy potato lava that bubbled over the sides and created what I can only describe as a reblochon-based catastrophe on the oven floor. We ate it anyway, scraping the crispy bits from the tray, sitting on the terrace with a bottle of rouge from the supermarket in Sevrier that had cost about six euros and tasted like it cost twenty. The lake went pink as the sun went down, and my cooking disaster somehow tasted magnificent.

The next morning revealed the true extent of my oven crime, but also the existence of a proper market in Tallories itself, down near the lake. Thursday mornings, apparently, though we found a smaller affair on the Saturday that suited us better. I bought more cheese, obviously - a beaufort this time, because the man gave me a sample and I lost all willpower. Fresh eggs with actual orange yolks, vegetables from someone's garden, honey that the seller told me came from hives just up the mountain. I nodded along as if I understood his rapid French, caught perhaps one word in three, and bought two jars because the first one looked lonely.

Lunch that day was a revelation. We'd walked along the lake path, the one that goes towards Menthon-Saint-Bernard, and found a little place doing plats du jour that looked nothing special from outside. I had a diots aux crozets - those little buckwheat pasta squares that are basically Savoyard comfort food - swimming in a creamy sauce with sausages that had clearly been made by someone who cared. My partner had a tartiflette, because apparently my attempt hadn't put them off, and theirs was what mine should have been. I had order envy. I also had a beer from a local brasserie that tasted properly hoppy and made me want to nap immediately afterwards.

The pubs and bars in Tallories itself are limited but charming in that very French way where you can't quite tell if they're open or if you've accidentally wandered into someone's front room. We found one near the port area, all wooden benches and locals playing cards, where I attempted to order in French and was met with such patient correction that I nearly gave up and pointed. The wine was local, a gamay from somewhere nearby, and the barman poured it like he was doing you a personal favour. We sat there for two hours watching the boats, eating peanuts that came in little paper bags, and I felt that particular holiday feeling where time stops mattering.

I did attempt to cook again, because I'm stubborn like that. A trip to a larger supermarket in Annecy proper - don't tell anyone, I know, but sometimes you need things - yielded proper equipment. The second tartiflette was a triumph. I also tried my hand at a fondue one evening, which felt appropriately theatrical for a mountain property, even if Tallories isn't exactly high altitude. The trick with the cornflour, which I'd read about in a panic online, actually worked. We didn't lose any bread in the pot, which my partner declared a miracle given my track record with melted cheese situations.

Breakfasts became a ritual. Market bread, the good butter you can only seem to get in France, jam from that honey man's wife, apparently. Coffee on the terrace watching the paragliders come down from Col de la Forclaz, looking like colourful insects against the mountains. I stopped checking my phone. I started planning meals before I'd finished the one I was eating.

The local restaurants we tried were a mixed bag in the best way. One place near the lake did a raclette that involved actual melting wheels and scraping, which I found mesmerising and slightly aggressive. Another, further up in the village, did simple grilled fish with lemon that let the setting do the work. We ate too much, always, because the portions were generous and the walking we'd done felt like it justified everything. It probably didn't. I gained weight. I do not care.

On our last evening, we walked back down to the port and found a bar doing live music, some chap with a guitar singing French songs that everyone else seemed to know. We drank local beer and shared a flamiche, which is basically a tart with leeks and cream and everything good about the world. I thought about my satnav disaster, my reblochon lava, my terrible French. I thought about how I'd come here thinking I knew what I liked to eat, and how this place had gently shown me I didn't know the half of it.

The cheese was wrapped in paper in the fridge for the journey home. The honey went in my hand luggage, wrapped in socks, because I've learned my lesson about airport security and sticky situations. We left early, because the flight was mid-morning, and I stood in that kitchen for a moment wondering if I could justify one more tartiflette at seven in the morning.

I couldn't. But I wanted to. And that, I think, tells you everything you need to know.