I have never been so relieved to see a cheese shop in my entire life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive to Oud Gastel took roughly two and a half hours from the Eurotunnel, which I spent convincing myself I had packed the coffee maker. I had not. I had packed three different types of olive oil, a jar of capers I cannot explain, and a wooden spoon that has seen better days. The coffee maker sat on my kitchen counter at home, probably laughing at me.

We arrived at the holiday home in late afternoon, hungry and slightly delirious from motorway service station sandwiches. The property sat on a quiet residential lane, all tidy brick and sensible Dutch gardening. My partner went to investigate the kitchen while I wrestled with the key. I heard a noise I can only describe as disappointed silence.

The kitchen was perfectly adequate, even charming, with its compact hob and modest oven. What it lacked was any food whatsoever. I had assumed, in that vague way one does, that we might find salt. Maybe pepper. A lonely tea bag. Nothing. The cupboards were as bare as my planning skills.

We needed to shop before we could even make a cup of tea. This is how we found ourselves at the local supermarket in nearby Oud Gastel village, wandering aisles in a daze of unfamiliar packaging. I bought bread that turned out to be breakfast cake. I bought what I thought was bacon and was in fact some sort of smoked sausage situation. My partner, who speaks no Dutch whatsoever, attempted to ask a shelf-stocker about cheese and accidentally complimented his shoes. The man was very gracious about it.

That first evening we cobbled together a strange meal of bread, questionable meat products, and tomatoes that were genuinely excellent. We sat at the kitchen table congratulating ourselves on our resourcefulness while drinking wine from mugs. The holiday home had proper wine glasses, of course, but we were too tired to locate them. This set the tone for our entire approach to self-catering.

The next morning I attempted pancakes. The hob had other ideas about temperature control. I produced something between a crepe and a failed omelette, which my partner ate with the determined politeness of someone who loves me but is questioning my culinary qualifications. We walked to the village bakery afterward for proper supplies, where I pointed at things hopefully and came away with speculaas biscuits that became our breakfast staple for the week.

Wednesday brought the weekly market in nearby Steenbergen, a short cycle ride through flat green countryside. I had packed a rucksack with grand ambitions. The market stalls overflowed with local produce: enormous wheels of Noord-Holland cheese, fresh stroopwafels still warm and pliable, vegetables that actually smelled like vegetables. I bought too much of everything. The cheese alone required its own seat on the bicycle home. I ate a herring from a street vendor, holding it by the tail in the traditional manner, feeling absurdly pleased with myself until I realised I had no napkins and a face full of onion.

Back at the holiday home, I attempted to cook something worthy of my market haul. The kitchen, compact as it was, became my domain. I made a stamppot that was more enthusiastic than authentic, mashing potatoes with kale and rookworst until it resembled comfort food. It was not pretty. It was absolutely delicious. We ate it at the small garden table, watching the evening light settle over the neighbouring houses, and I felt genuinely proud in that uncomplicated way that home cooking sometimes allows.

The rest of the week followed this pattern. Mornings began with strong coffee from the machine we eventually bought at a local electrical shop, accompanied by whatever pastry we had procured. Lunches were simple affairs of cheese and bread and excellent butter, eaten during walks or at the kitchen counter while planning dinner. Dinners became increasingly ambitious as I learned the oven's quirks, its hot spots and temperamental timer.

I made a vlaai one afternoon, the Limburgian fruit tart that North Brabant has adopted with characteristic good taste. The pastry cracked. The fruit filling was slightly too sweet. We ate it warm with cream and declared it a triumph anyway. Some meals do not need to be perfect to be perfect.

On our final evening, I cooked a simple meal of chicken with mustard sauce, new potatoes, and green beans from a village greengrocer. It was the best thing I made all week, not because of technique but because I had finally relaxed into the rhythm of the place. The kitchen felt familiar now. I knew which drawer held the good knife, how long the hob took to heat, where to set the table to catch the last of the evening light.

We finished the last of the market cheese with our wine, still in mugs because we never did find those proper glasses. I thought about the coffee maker at home, the unnecessary olive oils, the general foolishness of my packing. None of it mattered. We had eaten well, if strangely, and made something like a home in this small Dutch house.

The cheese shop that saved our first evening became a daily stop. By the end of the week, the woman behind the counter recognised my pointing and hopeful smiling. She would select something for me, something local, something good. I never learned to pronounce the names properly. I always enjoyed them completely. Some communications do not require perfect language, only enthusiasm and an open mouth.

I left Oud Gastel slightly heavier, significantly happier, and with a new appreciation for compact kitchens and proper butter. The coffee maker was waiting when I got home. I looked at it for a long moment, then made tea. Old habits, especially the slightly foolish ones, die hard.