I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I confidently strode into what I thought was our cottage in Lautenthal, only to find a very confused German chap in his dressing gown holding a mug of coffee. Wrong house. Same shade of timber framing. Absolutely mortifying. Three doors down, the actual keys were waiting in the little NovaSOL lockbox, and I spent the first ten minutes of proper arrival peering through the windows to triple-check I had the right one this time.

The cottage itself turned out to be a proper gem, all dark beams and that satisfying creak of proper old floors. But let me tell you, after that performance, I needed feeding. Desperately. The Harz does not disappoint on that front.

Lautenthal sits tucked into the valley like it is trying to hide from the modern world, and the local eating scene has that brilliant unhurried quality you only find in places not trying to impress anyone. Our first evening, we wandered to the Gasthaus in the village centre, the kind of place where the menu is handwritten and changes based on what the butcher had that morning. I ordered the Harzer Roller cheese starter out of misplaced bravado, having heard it was an acquired taste. It is. Imagine something that smells like feet but somehow tastes like the soul of the mountains. I ate the lot out of stubbornness and spent the rest of the meal slightly emotional.

The main event was Sauerfleisch, that tangy pickled pork dish that makes proper use of local vinegar traditions. My partner had the Brocken trout, which I eyed with jealousy across the table. The portions were generous to the point of aggression. We rolled back to the cottage and I immediately began planning breakfast revenge.

Here is where I must confess something. The cottage kitchen was genuinely lovely, all modern fittings hiding behind that rustic facade, and I had grand plans of cooking proper local produce. The Lautenthal market happens twice weekly in the little square, and I turned up on the Thursday morning with reusable bags and serious intent. I bought potatoes that still had actual soil on them, proper Harz honey from a man who kept bees on the hillside, and some blood sausage that I was absolutely going to transform into something magnificent.

What I actually produced was a hash of questionable structural integrity and a honey glaze that went from caramelised to carbonised while I was wrestling with the unfamiliar oven settings. We ate it anyway, standing at the kitchen counter, laughing at my culinary hubris. Sometimes the attempt matters more than the result.

The local pubs became our salvation. There is something deeply comforting about German village drinking culture, that sense that the pub is simply an extension of someone's front room. We found our regular in a place where the landlord remembered our order by the second visit and started pouring my half-litre of local pilsner when he saw us crossing the square. The bar snacks were magnificent, simple things done properly, thick slices of bread with dripping, bowls of crunchy pickled things that made you want another beer.

On our final evening, defeated by my own cooking ambitions, we returned to the Gasthaus and I had the pork knuckle. It arrived like a small monument, crackling perfect, meat falling away, accompanied by dumplings that soaked up the gravy like they were born for the purpose. I ate until I was actually in pain, and then I ate a bit more because leaving it would have felt disrespectful.

Driving away the next morning, slightly heavier and considerably happier, I caught sight of that wrong cottage door and smiled. Some holidays give you polished perfection. Lautenthal gave me misdirection, questionable cheese, burnt honey, and some of the most honest eating I have done in years. I would take that trade every single time.