I have never been so relieved to see a canal in my life. After three hours on the Autobahn from Berlin, my partner and I finally pulled into Zerpenschleuse, only to realise we had left the shopping bag with all our carefully planned dinner ingredients on the kitchen counter sixty miles back. There we stood, hungry and foolish, staring at our lovely holiday let with its fully equipped kitchen and absolutely nothing to put in it.

The property itself was a converted mill house or some such thing, all beams and character, with a proper cooker that looked like it had seen some action. I had grand plans of slow-cooked stews and hearty German breakfasts. Instead, we were facing a evening of tap water and regret.

We dumped our bags and marched straight to the village shop, which turned out to be more of a shrine to tinned goods and perseverance than a proper food emporium. I bought three jars of pickled something-or-other, some questionable sausages, and a loaf of bread that could have doubled as a building material. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "this is your fault and we both know it" look. Fair enough, really.

The next morning, properly desperate, we found the local bakery. Now this was more like it. Fresh Broetchen still warm from the oven, proper dark rye bread, and a woman behind the counter who tolerated my terrible German with the patience of a saint. I pointed at things hopefully and came away with a paper bag full of breakfast glory. We ate on the little terrace behind the house, butter dripping everywhere, and I decided that perhaps disaster could be recovered from.

Saturday brought the weekly market in nearby Wandlitz, which someone at the bakery had mentioned. We drove over with proper intent, baskets at the ready like serious people who know what they are doing. The market was small but fierce - local farmers with vegetables still muddy from the fields, a chap selling honey he had definitely harvested himself given the state of his arms, and a cheese stall that made me want to weep with gratitude. I bought potatoes, carrots, onions, and a hunk of pork shoulder that spoke to me of Sunday roasts and redemption.

That evening I attempted something approaching a proper German meal. The kitchen at the house was genuinely well-equipped, which only made my earlier failure more embarrassing. I browned the pork, added the vegetables, threw in some of those pickled things from the village shop because waste not want not, and let it all bubble away while we opened a bottle of something local and red. It was not sophisticated. It was arguably not even correct. But by goodness it was satisfying, eaten at the wooden table with the windows open to the canal and the evening light doing that golden thing it does in Brandenburg.

We found a proper pub too, eventually. The Wirtshaus in the next village along, all dark wood and regulars who looked like they had been sitting there since reunification. I ordered Schnitzel because when in Rome, and it arrived the size of a dinner plate with potatoes fried in enough butter to make a cardiologist wince. My partner had some fish thing, fresh from one of the lakes presumably, though I was too busy with my pork to investigate properly. The beer was cold and local, and the landlord nodded at us in a way that suggested we might eventually become tolerated.

By our final day I had become almost competent. Breakfast was a triumph of bakery goods and local cheese. I had learned which market stall had the best tomatoes. I could order coffee without causing confusion. We even attempted to cook trout one evening, bought from a smokehouse we stumbled upon near the water. I overcooked it slightly if I am honest, but we ate it anyway, sitting outside as the sun went down, and I felt genuinely proud of our little domestic setup.

The journey home was quieter, fuller, and involved a stop at that same bakery for road provisions. I still think about that kitchen sometimes, and the meals we cobbled together from various disasters. There is something rather wonderful about cooking in a strange place, with strange ingredients, after a day of walking through pine forests and along canal towpaths. It is not the cooking of home, all familiar and efficient. It is something more interesting than that. Something earned, somehow. I would do it again in a heartbeat. Though perhaps with a checklist next time, and someone else in charge of the shopping bags.