I had been looking forward to our little break in Gelderland for weeks, so of course I managed to make a complete hash of the final stretch. Somewhere between Den Bosch and our holiday home in Kerkdriel, I became absolutely convinced that the sat nav was having a laugh at my expense. "Turn left," it said, into what appeared to be a canal. I didn't turn left. I carried straight on, found myself in a field, and spent twenty minutes doing a three-point turn that required about seventeen points and some creative language. My partner sat there with that particular expression of loving patience that actually means "I will be bringing this up for years."

When we finally rolled up to the place, I was ready for a cup of tea and a sit-down. But the moment I opened the car door, the smell hit me. Not the farmyard whiff I'd half-expected, but something far more promising. Our neighbour was grilling something on a proper charcoal barbecue, and the smoke carried across the hedge with what I can only describe as malicious intent. I was suddenly ravenous.

The holiday home itself was spot on. Clean, bright, and crucially, a kitchen that looked like someone had actually cooked in it before rather than just staged it for a photograph. I made a beeline for the nearest supermarket while my partner unpacked, determined to make up for my navigational failures with culinary competence.

The Jumbo in Kerkdriel became my second home over those few days. I must have popped in daily, sometimes twice. The cheese selection alone had me standing there like a fool, reading labels I couldn't properly pronounce. I became weirdly obsessed with finding the perfect aged Gouda, as if my entire holiday happiness depended on it. I bought three different ones on day one. We ate cheese for every meal for forty-eight hours and I regret nothing.

Saturday morning brought the local market, and I was up with the larks despite having no particular reason to be. There's something about holiday adrenaline, isn't there? The market wasn't enormous, but it had everything I wanted: fresh bread that actually tasted of something, tomatoes that smelled like tomatoes rather than chilled water, and a fishmonger who patiently explained in excellent English why I absolutely should not attempt to cook his eel the way I was planning. I bought some anyway. It seemed rude not to after he'd been so helpful.

Back at the house, my self-catering attempts became the main entertainment. The first evening's pasta was straightforward enough, though I got carried away with the local mustard and nearly blew our heads off. The second night I attempted something more ambitious with those tomatoes, some proper Dutch bacon, and a heroic amount of butter. It was, if I say so myself, not half bad. My partner photographed it for posterity, which felt like genuine validation until I realised they were probably gathering evidence for a future "remember when" campaign.

Breakfasts became a ritual. Fresh bread from the market, good butter, that aged Gouda I was still working through, and coffee made in a cafetiere I found in the cupboard that looked older than I was but produced an excellent brew. We ate outside when the weather held, watching the morning mist lift off the fields. I kept thinking I should be doing something more active, more holiday-like, but the cheese was right there and the chair was comfortable.

My eel experiment happened on our final evening. Having ignored the fishmonger's advice, I naturally made a complete mess of it. The smell was... memorable. The taste was challenging. We ended up walking to a nearby eatery and I ate bitterballen and drank beer and pretended I had planned this outcome all along. The barman didn't believe me for a second.

I came home with three extra kilos and absolutely no regrets.