I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when my sat nav decided Kartuzy was somewhere in the middle of Lake Kladno. There I was, crawling along a farm track in my hire car, convinced I was being clever avoiding the main road, until I met a very unimpressed man herding geese. He pointed back the way I'd come with a gesture that needed no translation. Forty minutes later, sweaty and slightly humbled, I finally found the proper lane to the cottage.

The property itself was one of those solid Kashubian timber places, all dark wood and steep roof, with a garden that smelled of pine and something herby I couldn't identify. I dumped my bags and immediately opened the fridge, which is always my first move anywhere. Empty, of course, save for a half-frozen bottle of water left by the cleaners. The cupboards offered a single sachet of something called "grzybowa" soup mix and a jar of pickled herring that looked like it had been there since the Solidarity years. I made a mental note to find a proper shop before hunger turned me feral.

The local market in Kartuzy town centre saved me the next morning. It is not a polished tourist affair, thank goodness. Women in headscarves sat behind tables heaving with produce that actually looked like vegetables rather than supermarket sculptures. I bought kohlrabi the size of cricket balls, bunches of dill so fragrant they perfumed the whole car, and smoked sausage from a man who cut me a sample with a knife that had clearly seen decades of service. The cheese stall nearly finished me off entirely - rounds of oscypek-style smoked sheep cheese, still bearing the ridges from their wooden moulds. I bought three. Three. For one person staying four nights. This is the kind of mathematical reasoning that happens on holiday.

Back at the cottage, I attempted my first proper Kashubian meal. The kitchen was well-equipped in that slightly random way of self-catering places, with seventeen spoons and one slightly wobbly frying pan. I had grand plans for placki ziemniaczane, those crisp potato pancakes I'd read about. What I produced was closer to a potato-based science experiment, grey and gluey and entirely my own fault for getting the starch balance wrong. I ate them anyway, standing at the counter, chasing each bite with a gulp of local Tyskie beer. The herring from the cupboard, it turned out, was actually rather good with fresh onion and a splash of oil. Sometimes the universe provides.

By day three I had established something of a routine. Morning market for whatever looked interesting, afternoon cooking with varying success, evening meal on the little terrace watching the light go soft over the fields. I discovered kartoflaki, a sort of potato dumpling affair, through a combination of guesswork and a YouTube video that kept buffering. My version were lumpy and oddly shaped but tasted of something authentic, which I decided counted for more than presentation. The local honey I drizzled over them was apparently a regional thing, though the woman who sold it to me communicated this entirely through enthusiastic gestures and the word "miod" repeated several times.

The butcher in town became something of a confidant, or at least he nodded encouragingly as I pointed at various cuts of meat with the confidence of someone who had no idea what they were ordering. I came away with kielbasa that I grilled until the skins split, serving them with horseradish so strong it made my eyes water. The sour rye bread from the bakery, dense and slightly tangy, was the perfect vehicle for mopping up juices.

My final evening, I attempted a fish soup using fresh perch from the lake, or so the fisherman claimed. It was not a complete disaster, which by my standards counts as triumph. I sat with my bowl of respectable-if-uneven soup, the last of the cheese, and a view of pine trees darkening against the sky, feeling rather pleased with myself. The geese herder would not recognise me now, I thought, though perhaps he would still find something to judge. Some things you cannot cook your way out of.