I have never been so relieved to see a wooden stag carving in my life. Three hours of driving from Freiburg, two wrong turns past what I am fairly certain was the same field of cows, and one spectacular argument with a sat nav that insisted "Elsass" was apparently located in a river, and there it was: our little half-timbered holiday home, looking like something straight off a biscuit tin.

The mishap, because there always is one with me, happened approximately forty minutes earlier at a petrol station near Kirchzarten. I had popped in for some essentials, by which I mean Haribo and a bottle of something local, and emerged to find my partner attempting to converse with a very patient German man who was trying to explain, in excellent English, that I had left the handbrake off and our rental car was currently resting against his bumper. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make me want to dissolve into the Black Forest floor. The man was astonishingly gracious. I was astonishingly red. We fled with our dignity in tatters and our Haribo intact.

Arriving at Elsass, then, felt like sanctuary. The place is a proper traditional Schwarzwald house, all dark beams and flower boxes, with that particular hush that only seems to exist in places where the nearest main road is a concept rather than a reality. Our key was in the lockbox as promised, which I appreciated enormously given my current emotional fragility. The door opened with a satisfying clunk, and we stepped into what I can only describe as aggressively cosy.

The kitchen was the immediate star. Not enormous, but thoughtfully arranged, with a proper cooker and enough pots to suggest someone actually cooks here rather than just reheating supermarket pizza. A note on the counter welcomed us in several languages and mentioned the bread delivery service. I have never been so excited about carbohydrates in my life. The sitting area had a wood burner that I instantly decided would feature heavily in our stay, and upstairs the bedrooms sloped charmingly under the eaves, threatening to concuss anyone over five foot ten. My partner, who is six foot, has already developed a defensive stoop.

By now it was early evening and our stomachs were making themselves known. The owners had thoughtfully left a bottle of local wine and some basic provisions, but we were determined to find proper sustenance. A ten-minute wander down the lane brought us to a Gasthaus that looked like it had been serving hungry wanderers since approximately the Renaissance. Dark wood, checked tablecloths, a menu that understood its purpose in life. I ordered Kasespatzle because when in Rome, and what arrived was essentially a cheese avalanche with noodles buried somewhere underneath. It was magnificent. My partner had Schwarzwalder Schinken that was so smoky it practically came with its own weather system, followed by a schnitzel the size of a dinner plate. We washed it down with local beer and stumbled back to Elsass in the dark, slightly drunk on calories and contentment.

The following morning, I attempted to honour that beautiful kitchen with a proper breakfast. The bread delivery, it transpired, was not a myth. A cloth-wrapped loaf of crusty sourdough had materialised on our doorstep while we slept, still faintly warm. I fried eggs, assembled cheeses from the previous evening's emergency petrol station purchase, and made coffee with the stovetop pot I found in the cupboard. Sitting at the wooden table with the morning light coming through the small-paned windows, I felt briefly like someone who has their life together. The illusion lasted until I burned the second round of toast and set off the smoke alarm, which turned out to be both loud and enthusiastic.

We spent that afternoon at a local market in a nearby village, the name of which I immediately forgot but which featured more cured meats than I thought physically possible. I bought sausage. I bought cheese. I bought honey from a man who kept bees and spoke no English but communicated through enthusiastic gestures and samples. My partner bought a bottle of Kirschwasser that I suspect will sit in our cupboard at home until we move house. We returned to Elsass laden like medieval merchants and spent the evening attempting to cook a proper Schwarzwalder meal with our haul. The results were mixed. My attempt at potato salad was acceptable. My attempt at anything involving the local mushrooms was, frankly, an apology waiting to happen. We ordered pizza from a place in the next village and ate it without shame, surrounded by our market trophies like failed conquerors.

The pub situation, I should mention, is genuinely excellent in this corner of the world. That first Gasthaus became our regular, largely because the landlord stopped looking surprised when we appeared and started greeting us like slightly dim regulars. We worked our way through the beer menu with the dedication of professionals. We ate flammkuchen, that thin-crusted Alsatian cousin to pizza, which I became mildly obsessed with and attempted to recreate in the Elsass kitchen using a baking tray and misplaced confidence. The result was edible, which I consider a victory, though my partner's diplomatic silence spoke volumes.

On our final morning, I stood in that kitchen making one last proper coffee and watching mist rise from the trees beyond the window. The stag carving outside seemed to judge me less than he had on arrival. I had burned toast here, failed at mushrooms, succeeded at cheese consumption, and been gently welcomed into a community that takes its food and its peace seriously. The sat nav remained my enemy, the handbrake incident remained my shame, but Elsass had given me something better: the particular pleasure of feeding yourself badly and well in a place that does not hurry.