I have never been so relieved to see a windmill in my life. After three hours of driving from the Eurotunnel, my sat-nav had finally given up the ghost somewhere near Ghent, leaving me to navigate the Zeeland countryside by sheer instinct and a crumpled printout from 2019. The mishap came when I confidently turned onto what I believed was the main road to Ijzendijke, only to find myself bumper-deep in a farmers' track, face to face with a very unimpressed Belgian Blue bull who looked at me with the same disdain I reserve for people who put pineapple on pizza. Twenty minutes of reversing later, I limped into the village, slightly muddy, thoroughly humbled, and absolutely ravenous.

The holiday cottage itself was a proper charmer, tucked down a quiet lane with a garden that smelled of sea air and something herby I couldn't quite place. I dumped my bags and did what any sensible person would do after a near-death encounter with livestock: I went looking for food. The local shops in Ijzendijke proper proved to be a treasure trove of edible possibilities. I filled my basket at the butcher with slabs of Zeeland beef and a string of rookworst that the chap behind the counter assured me, in excellent English, would "change my life." I was sceptical, but I have learned never to argue with a man wielding a meat cleaver.

That first evening, I attempted to honour my purchases properly. The cottage kitchen was better equipped than my own flat, which only made my incompetence more embarrassing. I had grand plans for a proper stamppot, having watched a YouTube video at a service station. The reality involved potatoes that were somehow both underdone and falling apart, kale that went from raw to charcoal in approximately forty seconds, and a rookworst that I had neglected to pierce, resulting in a small but dramatic explosion that splattered sausage juice across the kitchen tiles. I ate it anyway, standing at the counter with a large glass of Belgian beer I had wisely purchased as insurance, and I will be honest: it tasted magnificent. There is something about eating your own culinary disasters in a foreign country that feels oddly triumphant, like you have passed some unspoken test of character.

The following morning, I cycled to the weekly market in nearby Hulst, which I had read about in a leaflet at the cottage. The ride itself was glorious, flat as a pancake and lined with apple orchards heavy with fruit. The market was everything I had hoped for: stalls heaped with mussels still dripping Zeeland seawater, wheels of aged Beemster cheese that smelled like proper farming, and an elderly woman selling homemade appeltaart that she cut with the solemnity of a priest performing communion. I bought far too much, as one always does, including a jar of Zeeland mustard that I convinced myself I would use constantly back in Birmingham. Reader, I have used it twice. It stares at me from the fridge door with quiet judgement.

Lunch became a ritual of pure indulgence. I would cycle back with my panniers groaning, construct enormous open sandwiches on the cottage's wobbly garden table, and eat them while watching a neighbour's cat judge my life choices from the fence. The bread was extraordinary, proper crusty stuff from a bakery I never learned the name of, and the cheese seemed to improve with each passing day, which I know scientifically makes no sense but felt true nonetheless.

By my third evening, I had grown bolder. I attempted mussels, having watched the fishmonger demonstrate the proper cleaning technique with the patience of a man who has dealt with many incompetent tourists. The result was passable, though I suspect I overcooked them slightly. They sat in their pot, plump and orange in a broth of white wine and garlic, and I ate them with my fingers like a proper peasant, mopping the juice with bread until my chin glistened with butter. It was, without question, the best meal I had eaten in months, and I said so aloud to absolutely no one, which felt perfectly appropriate.

Ijzendijke is not a place that shouts about itself, and that is precisely its charm. There are no Michelin stars within easy reach, no celebrity chefs doing television specials. What you get instead is the quiet satisfaction of cooking with ingredients that have not travelled far, of eating bread still warm from a baker who remembers your face, of constructing a meal from market finds and eating it slowly while the light fades over the garden. I returned home with my jeans slightly tighter, my mustard jar largely untouched, and a newfound respect for anyone who can cook a stamppot without creating a small kitchen explosion. Some holidays change your perspective; this one simply changed my waistline, and I regret absolutely nothing.