I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put the sat nav postcode in wrong and ended up at a tractor dealership just outside Veendam. There I was, trying to look casual next to a row of enormous John Deeres, while a very patient Dutch man explained that I was about twenty minutes from anywhere useful. My partner just sat in the passenger seat, slowly eating the stroopwafels we'd bought at the Eurotunnel terminal, refusing to make eye contact.

When we finally found the Vlagtwedde, tucked into that quiet corner of southeast Groningen, I felt immediately ridiculous for getting lost. The place was everything the photos promised - a proper traditional Dutch holiday home with that distinctive dark wood exterior and a garden that looked like someone actually enjoyed tending it. I stood there with our bags, still smelling faintly of tractor grease, and thought: right, let's do this properly. Let's eat well.

The kitchen was the real star, which suited me perfectly. Big rustic table, decent oven, and a fridge that hummed with the confidence of something that actually worked. We dumped our things and drove the ten minutes to Vlagtwedde village proper, hunting for supplies. The supermarket there - nothing fancy, just your standard Dutch grocery - became our second home. I became weirdly obsessed with the cheese selection, standing there for an embarrassing length of time choosing between a young Gouda and something aged that smelled like it had opinions. We bought both, obviously, plus proper Dutch butter, those little round potatoes they do so well, and smoked sausage from the deli counter that the woman sliced with satisfying precision.

That first evening I attempted stamppot, because when in Rome and all that. Mashed potatoes with kale and the smoked sausage folded through, a knob of butter melting on top. It went wrong, of course. I got the potato texture wrong - too wet, then I panicked and overcompensated, and we ended up with something closer to potato soup with green bits. My partner was kind about it, in that specific way that means they'll definitely mention it at Christmas. We ate it anyway, sitting at that big table with the garden doors open, drinking cheap white wine from chunky glasses, and I decided that culinary failure in a foreign kitchen is probably character building.

The next morning I redeemed myself with breakfast. We'd found a bakery in Bourtange, that star-shaped fortified village barely fifteen minutes away, and I'd gone slightly mad buying speculaas, crusty white bread, and these little currant buns that I can't remember the Dutch name for but absolutely should have bought more of. Back at the house, I fried eggs in butter with the confidence of someone who had already failed publicly and had nothing left to lose. We ate outside, the bread still warm from the bakery, with proper Dutch chocolate sprinkles on toast because I am an adult who makes good decisions.

The local market in Stadskanaal became our Saturday ritual. Proper old-school market, all shouting vendors and samples on toothpicks. I bought vegetables I didn't recognise and had to Google later, plus herring from a stall where the man demonstrated the traditional way of eating it - head back, whole thing down. I did not attempt this. My partner did, with the theatrical grimace of someone who regrets every choice that led them to this moment. We bought more cheese, obviously, plus fresh stroopwafels that made our Eurotunnel ones taste like cardboard, and apples that actually tasted of something.

Back at the Vlagtwedde, I cooked with increasing confidence. A proper Dutch pea soup one rainy afternoon, thick enough to stand a spoon in, with chunks of rookworst bobbing about like tasty life rafts. Pancakes for dinner one night, because why not, piled with bacon and syrup in that brilliant Dutch sweet-savoury combination. I even attempted apple pie, using apples from the market and a recipe I found in a drawer in the kitchen, written in Dutch that I mostly deciphered through stubbornness and Google Translate. It emerged from the oven looking authentically rustic, which is to say slightly collapsed, but tasted absolutely proper with thick cream poured over.

What I loved about that kitchen, that whole stay, was how it slowed everything down. No rushing to restaurants, no worrying about bookings. Just the rhythm of markets and cooking, of opening wine while something bubbled on the stove, of eating proper meals at a table with the garden getting dark outside. I thought about how I cook at home - rushed, functional, often while scrolling my phone - and felt slightly ashamed. Here, making a hash of stamppot mattered, because it was the whole point of the evening.

On our last night I did the stamppot again, and got it right this time. Thick, proper, the kale still with some bite, the sausage browned at the edges. We ate it in silence for a few minutes, just appreciating, and my partner said it was better than any restaurant. They're a terrible liar sometimes, but I chose to believe them.