I have never been brilliant at reading maps, and my first attempt at finding our holiday let in Darlowo proved this beyond any doubt. My partner sat in the passenger seat, phone in hand, calmly directing me toward what she called "the scenic route." Three wrong turns, one accidental tour of a tractor depot, and a near-miss with a very patient cyclist later, we finally pulled up to a modest block near the Baltic coast. I had managed to turn a forty-minute drive from Koszalin into something closer to an hour and a quarter. Still, the smell of sea air hit us the moment we opened the car doors, and suddenly my navigational shame felt rather less important.

The flat itself was exactly the sort of place that makes self-catering holidays worthwhile. Nothing fancy, but clean and practical, with a kitchen that looked like it had actually been used by real humans rather than staged for a brochure. I immediately opened every cupboard, as one does, and found the usual assortment of mismatched plates, a frying pan with a handle that wobbled slightly, and a single wooden spoon that had clearly seen some action. There was a small balcony overlooking a courtyard where someone was already grilling something that smelled absolutely incredible. My stomach made a noise that I am choosing to believe my partner did not hear.

We had arrived on a Saturday, which meant the local market was still open. This, I decided, would be our first proper mission. Darlowo's market is not enormous, but it is exactly what you want from a Baltic town: rows of stalls under striped awnings, elderly women selling jars of things they have clearly made themselves, and fish so fresh it practically introduces itself. I attempted to ask for "four of those lovely-looking herring" in my dreadful Polish and somehow ended up with six mackerel and what I believe was a complimentary lecture on proper gutting technique. The fishmonger was kind about it. My partner found this hilarious and has reminded me of it at every meal since.

That first evening, we attempted to cook simply. Just the mackerel, some potatoes, and a salad made from tomatoes that actually tasted of something. I am not a confident cook at the best of times, and cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen brings out a strange anxiety in me. I spent twenty minutes searching for a colander before realising the sink had one of those pull-out draining racks. The smoke alarm did not go off, which I consider a personal triumph, though I did manage to splatter fish oil across the hob in a way that will probably outlast our tenancy. We ate on that wobbly balcony as the light faded, watching someone else's barbecue smoke drift across the courtyard, and I felt genuinely proud of our slightly charred but entirely edible supper.

The following morning revealed that I had not properly closed the bread bin overnight, and a local cat had helped itself to half our rye loaf. I found this less amusing than my partner did, particularly as I had been looking forward to that bread with my coffee. We walked to a nearby bakery instead, where I pointed at things and smiled while she handled the actual purchasing. The pastry I selected turned out to contain some kind of savoury cabbage filling that was absolutely delicious and completely unexpected. This became a pattern: my random pointing led to surprising discoveries, her careful selections led to reliable pleasures.

By our third day, I had developed an embarrassing enthusiasm for the local shops. There was a small grocery on Ulica Morska where the owner recognised us by then and would produce samples of kielbasa with the air of someone conducting a serious educational programme. I ate more pickled herring in one week than I had in the previous five years combined. We attempted to recreate a fish soup we had seen advertised at a harbour restaurant, using a recipe I found on my phone and ingredients that were close enough. It was not the same, but it was ours, and we ate it with too much bread and Polish beer that cost less than water back home.

I kept meaning to try the pierogi from a stall near the lighthouse, but each time we passed I was already too full from some other discovery. This is, I think, the real pleasure of self-catering in a place like Darlowo. You are not tied to restaurant schedules or tourist menus. You can fail at fish soup at half past six, then wander out for ice cream at nine. You can become overly invested in finding the perfect tomato. You can argue gently about whether the wobbly frying pan is "charming" or "actually quite annoying," and decide it is somehow both.

On our final morning, I made breakfast while my partner packed. Just eggs, the last of the kielbasa, and some cheese we had bought from a woman who kept it in a cool box beneath her market stall. I used the wobbly pan one last time, and it finally came loose completely. I caught it, mostly, though I did burn my thumb and say something unprintable. We ate standing up, leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing about the cat and the fishmonger and my terrible sense of direction. I would not have had it any other way, burnt thumb and all.