I'd left it rather late to pack, hadn't I? There I was at six in the morning, shoving half a loaf of stale bread and a jar of Marmite into the boot of the car, convinced I'd need emergency rations in the wilds of Saxony-Anhalt. My partner just raised an eyebrow and said, "There's a Lidl in Quedlinburg, you know." I chose to ignore this.

The drive from the ferry at Rotterdam had been surprisingly painless until we hit the Harz foothills. That's when the sat-nav decided to have what I can only describe as a small electronic breakdown. Instead of taking us directly to Thale, it sent us up a forestry track that grew progressively narrower, until we were essentially driving through someone's beetroot field. A very angry gentleman in a tractor gestured at us with considerable enthusiasm. We reversed for nearly a mile. I maintained a dignified silence. My partner did not.

We finally found the proper road and pulled up at the property just as the afternoon light was turning golden. It's a solid, traditional Harz house with that lovely dark timber framing, the sort that makes you feel immediately that you've arrived somewhere properly German and properly purposeful. I was still rattled from our agricultural detour, but the sight of the proper kitchen through the window settled me somewhat. I'd been worried about cooking facilities, you see. Previous self-catering disasters have left me cautious.

The key was in the lockbox as promised, and we stepped inside to that particular smell of old wood and recent cleaning. I made straight for the kitchen. Proper cooker, decent-sized fridge, and - crucially - a coffee machine that looked like it meant business. I fumbled about for filters, found none, and had to make do with a saucepan and some kitchen roll for my first caffeine fix. It was not my finest culinary moment. The resulting brew tasted faintly of paper and desperation.

By now it was half past four and my stomach was making noises that could probably be heard in Goslar. We'd spotted a bakery in Thale proper on our accidental tour, so we walked down through the town. The Harzer Backstube on the main street was still open, thank goodness. I bought three Schrippe rolls, a poppyseed plait the size of my forearm, and something involving quark and cherries that I couldn't properly identify. The woman behind the counter spoke no English and my German extends mainly to ordering beer and apologising. We communicated through pointing and hopeful smiling. It worked well enough.

That evening we attempted proper cooking. There's a Netto on the edge of Thale, and we stocked up on Harzer cheese - that notorious sour milk cheese that smells like feet but tastes rather wonderful if you're in the right frame of mind. I also bought some proper Thuringian sausages, though strictly speaking we were just outside Thuringia, and some potatoes. My plan was simple: fry the sausages, boil the potatoes, pretend to be competent.

The sausages split in the pan and the potatoes turned out to be waxy rather than floury, but we ate on the little terrace with bottles of Wernesgruner from the fridge, and honestly? It was marvellous. The cheese was a step too far for my partner, who declared it "aggressive," but I rather enjoyed its peculiar tang with some rye bread.

Next morning I was determined to do better. We walked to the weekly market that sets up near the Rosstrappe chairlift base. I bought fresh trout from a man who'd caught them himself in the Selke, or so he claimed through elaborate mime. I also acquired proper coffee filters, which felt like a significant personal victory, and some local honey that the seller insisted came from bees who'd fed exclusively on heather. I chose to believe him. The trout I cooked simply with butter and dill from a pot on the kitchen windowsill, and it was genuinely the best fish I've eaten in years.

The pub situation in Thale deserves mention. We found the Zum Harzer Jungen on our second evening, a proper old Gasthaus with dark wood panelling and regulars who looked like they'd been sitting in the same seats since reunification. I ordered a Mass of pilsner and a plate of Sauerbraten that arrived with proper potato dumplings and red cabbage. The meat was so tender you could cut it with the edge of your fork. My partner had pork knuckle, which was enormous and slightly alarming in its scale, but she made respectable inroads. The landlord nodded approvingly when we ordered second beers. I felt we'd been accepted.

We attempted to recreate the dumpling experience back at the house on our final evening. I found a recipe in a battered cookbook on the shelf, written in German with helpful illustrations of what looked like potato-based grenades. Mine turned out dense and faintly grey. My partner's were better, though she claims this was luck rather than skill. We ate them with more sausages and the last of the beer, sitting on the terrace as the light faded over the Harz ridges.

I think what I'll remember most, though, is the morning routine we fell into. I'd walk down to the bakery for fresh rolls while the coffee brewed properly now, then we'd eat on that terrace with butter and jam and the honey from the heather-fed bees, watching the mist lift off the Bode valley. Simple things, done well, in a place that understands the value of both.