I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put the postcode into my sat nav and it tried to send me to a farm near Swindon. Three hours into what should have been a straightforward drive to the ferry, I found myself in a Morrisons car park in Luton, arguing with a woman called Brenda about whether I needed a European adapter for a Polish kettle. Brenda was adamant I did not. Brenda, it turned out, had never been to Poland.

The ferry crossing from Hull was surprisingly civilised, though I made the rookie error of booking a cabin directly above the nightclub. Nothing quite prepares you for the gentle thud of Baltic disco at two in the morning while you are trying to remember if you packed enough socks. By the time we docked in Rotterdam, I had consumed three overpriced coffees and developed a deep personal grudge against a Dutch lorry driver who kept whistling the same five notes of what I presume was a chart hit.

The drive through Germany was largely unremarkable except for a spectacular misunderstanding at a service station involving what I thought was a ham sandwich but was actually some form of pickled fish construction. I ate it anyway. Holiday rules apply.

Crossing into Poland, the landscape flattened and the pine forests began. The Baltic coast has a particular smell, I have decided, something between sea salt, resin, and the faint promise of chips. By the time I reached Ustronie Morskie, I was ravenous, slightly delirious, and absolutely determined to cook myself a proper meal in the holiday home kitchen.

The property itself was exactly as advertised, which in my experience of holiday lettings makes it practically miraculous. A proper cooker, a fridge that actually chilled things, and a balcony that looked out towards the sea through a gap in the trees. I dumped my bags, made a cup of tea with Brenda's advice ringing in my ears, and immediately set off to find food.

The local shops in Ustronie Morskie are a wonderful education in Polish coastal cuisine. I wandered into what I can only describe as a temple of smoked fish, where an elderly woman behind the counter regarded me with the weary patience of someone who has seen many British tourists attempt to communicate through a combination of pointing and hopeful smiling. I emerged with smoked mackerel, something she insisted was "the good herring," and a sausage that I later discovered was substantially more garlicky than anticipated.

That first evening, I attempted what I grandly termed a "Baltic platter." The kitchen in the holiday home proved adequate, though I did spend ten minutes trying to work out whether the oven was in Celsius or some ancient Polish temperature system known only to grandmothers. The smoked fish was sensational, the herring required more vodka than I had planned, and the garlic sausage made me briefly consider sleeping on the balcony for the benefit of anyone sharing the space.

The next morning, I found the local market. This was where the holiday truly began. Stalls of amber jewellery I had no intention of buying, certainly, but also proper food. Fresh bread from a baker who had clearly been up since four. Cucumbers that actually tasted of something. Tomatoes so ripe they threatened to collapse if you looked at them sternly. I bought a kilo of cherries from a man who threw in an extra handful "for the journey," though the journey was approximately four hundred metres back to the flat.

I spent three days attempting to cook proper Polish food with varying degrees of success. A bigos that simmered for hours and made the entire property smell like a forest floor in the most appealing way possible. Pierogi that I purchased frozen from a shop and merely boiled, which I am counting as cooking. A fish soup that started ambitiously with a stock made from fish heads and ended with me quietly ordering pizza after the stock developed what I can only describe as an attitude problem.

The local restaurants saved me from myself more than once. A beachside bar doing fried fish so fresh it practically introduced itself. A slightly more formal place where I ate zander for the first time and wondered why we do not see it more often in British waters, before remembering that we have largely fished our own seas into submission. The portions were consistently enormous, the prices embarrassingly modest, and the beer cold enough to make your teeth ache.

By the end of the week, my attempts at self-catering had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Breakfasts of proper Polish bread with fresh cheese and market tomatoes. Lunches assembled from whatever the morning's shopping had produced. Dinners that alternated between my own faltering efforts and the welcome relief of someone who actually knew what they were doing.

I left Ustronie Morskie with a suitcase slightly heavier than when I arrived, largely due to a jar of pickled mushrooms and a determination to find proper smoked fish back in Britain. The drive home was uneventful, though I did find myself in that same Morrisons car park in Luton, staring at the Polish food section with the expression of someone who has seen paradise and must now make do with a mass-produced approximation.

Brenda was not on shift. I hope she found peace.