I have never been so relieved to see a kettle in my life. After six hours of driving from Calais, a wrong turn somewhere near Hanover that added an hour, and then the final indignity of our sat-nav cheerfully announcing "You have reached your destination" while we stared at a closed garden centre, my partner Dave and I finally found the actual holiday home in Thale. I had been navigating using my phone, which I now suspect was punishing me for dropping it in a pint of lager in Brussels three years ago. The garden centre had a very nice display of terracotta pots, but no holiday let.

The property itself, when we finally located it, was one of those solid German houses that looks like it could survive a direct hit from a meteor. Dave immediately attempted to open what turned out to be a utility cupboard, mistaking it for the front door, and spent a good thirty seconds wiggling the handle with increasing desperation while I photographed him for posterity. The actual entrance was three metres to the left. I have not let him forget this.

Our first priority, naturally, was food. The kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, which immediately made me feel guilty about my intentions to use it merely as a staging area for cheese and bread. There was a proper hob, an oven that looked like it had seen actual use, and a fridge that hummed with the quiet confidence of German engineering. I opened it hopefully. Empty, of course, but full of possibility.

We had arrived on a Saturday, which meant the weekly market in Thale's town centre was still fresh in my mind from the research I had done three months ago and promptly forgotten. Sunday would be a write-off for shopping, so we made the executive decision to find dinner out and stock up properly on Monday.

The Gasthaus in the village centre, barely five minutes walk, was exactly what I wanted without knowing I wanted it. Dark wood, slightly too warm, a menu that understood meat and potatoes as a philosophy rather than merely a combination. I ordered the Harzer Roller, a local cheese I had read about, and immediately understood why it comes with warning labels. Dave, who considers himself adventurous because he once ate a scotch bonnet on a bet, took one sniff and pushed his portion toward me with the look of a man who has seen his own mortality. I ate both. The beer, a local pilsner, was excellent and necessary. The schnitzel that followed was the size of a dinner plate and about as thick as my thumb, which is exactly how schnitzel should be. Dave had some sort of venison stew that he still mentions in reverent tones.

Monday morning found us at that market, which I had built up in my head as some kind of agricultural paradise. Reality was more modest but no less charming. An older woman sold apples from her orchard with the quiet pride of someone who knows exactly how good they are. I bought too many, as is my way. There was proper bread, dense and dark, from a bakery van. Sausages, obviously. Local honey that the seller let us taste from a wooden dipper, which felt faintly ceremonial. I spent twenty minutes discussing potato varieties with a man who spoke no English and approximately five words of German between us, mostly through the universal language of holding up vegetables and nodding thoughtfully.

That evening I attempted to cook properly for the first time. The kitchen, I discovered, had a spice rack that someone had actually filled with useful things rather than the dusty relics you find in most holiday lets. I made a hash of local potatoes with onions and the last of the market sausage, fried eggs on top, the yolks just runny enough. Dave made appreciative noises that I choose to interpret as genuine rather than diplomatic. We ate at the small table looking out at the garden, which was doing that particular German thing of being extremely tidy while still managing to look completely natural.

Tuesday I found the bakery proper, not the van, and established a morning routine of fresh rolls that I would absolutely maintain at home if I had any discipline whatsoever. The woman behind the counter began to recognise me, which I found embarrassingly gratifying. By Wednesday I was attempting Apfelkuchen based on a recipe I found in a drawer, written in handwriting that suggested someone's grandmother. It emerged slightly burnt on top and raw in the middle, which Dave ate without complaint while I sulked and picked at the acceptable edges. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and failure for hours.

Thursday we returned to the Gasthaus, unable to resist, and I finally tried the Rouladen, beef rolled around pickle and mustard, cooked until it threatened to fall apart if you looked at it directly. The red cabbage alongside was sweet and sharp in that perfect German balance. Dave had discovered the local dark beer and was making his way through the varieties with the dedication of a man conducting important research.

Our final morning, I made one last trip to the bakery for rolls and a proper loaf to take home, which we ate with the remaining market honey and butter while packing. The kitchen, I noticed, had become comfortably familiar over the week, the sort of space where you stop thinking about where things are and just reach for them. I left the remaining spices arranged by height, a small tribute to whoever had stocked them so thoughtfully.

We drove away full of good food and slightly too much of it, Dave navigating this time with actual paper directions as backup. I had the last apple in my coat pocket. The sat-nav, I swear, sounded faintly disappointed.