I have always believed that the true measure of a holiday is not the view from your bedroom window but what ends up on your plate. So when my partner suggested a week in Ostroda, in the heart of Masuria, I packed an extra pair of loose trousers and prepared my stomach for whatever Poland's lake district could throw at it.

The journey from the airport was where things first went slightly wrong, in that particularly British way of turning minor disasters into family legend. We had stopped at a petrol station somewhere past Olsztyn to buy supplies, and I, in my infinite wisdom, had purchased what I believed to be a large bottle of still water and a promising-looking packet of biscuits. Two hours later, having arrived at our holiday home and cracked open the water to begin our celebratory cup of tea, I discovered I had in fact bought sparkling water. Worse still, the biscuits were not biscuits at all but some sort of savoury cracker flavoured aggressively with caraway seeds. My partner laughed so hard she nearly dropped the proper teabags. I ate three crackers out of stubborn pride and spent the rest of the evening hiccupping.

The holiday home itself, a tidy wooden place on the edge of town, came with a kitchen that immediately made me ambitious. There was a proper cooker, decent knives, and a fridge that hummed with optimistic possibility. We unpacked our sad crackers, put the sparkling water in the back where it could contemplate its mistakes, and walked into Ostroda proper to find something actually edible.

What we found was better than I had dared hope. The local market, operating from a modest square near the canal, was a glorious chaos of late summer produce. Old women in headscarves presided over tables heaped with mushrooms I could not name, cucumbers the size of my forearm, and tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes. I bought a paper bag of wild mushrooms from a grandmother who spoke no English but communicated volumes through expressive hand gestures and a sample cooked on her portable stove. My partner acquired a jar of honey that the same woman had apparently harvested herself, along with a firm warning look that suggested we were not to haggle.

That evening I attempted my first proper self-catering effort: a mushroom risotto using the wild variety, local butter, and rice we had brought from home in a moment of inexplicable British caution. The mushrooms were earthier than anything from a supermarket, with a slight bitterness that needed more salt than I expected. I added too much, then tried to correct with cream, then found myself making the sort of culinary decisions that happen when you have already opened the wine. The result was edible but eccentric, a risotto that tasted of ambition and mild panic. We ate it on the small terrace watching the light fade over the nearby lake, and I decided that imperfect food in a perfect setting is still rather wonderful.

Breakfasts became our most successful meals. The local bakery, found through determined wandering down a street that smelled perpetually of yeast, produced bread that ruined me for sliced white forever. Dense rye loaves with chewy crusts, still warm if you arrived before half past eight. We would buy half a loaf, some proper butter from the market, and those Polish cottage cheeses that come in little tubs and taste of actual grass and patience. My partner developed a minor obsession with a particular smoked fish from a vendor near the canal, a delicate golden trout that she would flake onto dark bread with radishes and declare the finest breakfast known to humanity. I preferred the simple pleasure of fresh bread with good butter and too much of that grandmother's honey, eaten while still in my dressing gown with the morning cold on my face.

Lunches we often took out, discovering the practical Polish tradition of bars serving honest food at honest prices. The pierogi were inevitable and excellent, particularly a version stuffed with wild mushrooms and sauerkraut that I still attempt to recreate with decreasing success. One afternoon I ordered bigos, the hunter's stew, from a place near the waterfront that looked unpromising and turned out to be magnificent. Thick with several kinds of meat, softened sauerkraut, and the sort of depth that only comes from long cooking and someone who cares more about flavour than presentation. I ate until movement became theoretical, then walked very slowly around the town's modest castle ruins until digestion permitted normal function.

Dinners back at our wooden kitchen became increasingly elaborate as the week progressed and my confidence grew. I learned to ask market vendors for cooking advice through a combination of broken Polish, enthusiastic gesturing, and the occasional helpful bystander who took pity. A butcher near the main street taught me the proper preparation of kielbasa for a simple dinner of sausage, mustard, and bread, emphasising the importance of not overcooking, which I had been doing my entire life. Another vendor explained how to select the right white cheese for frying, a technique I attempted with moderate success, producing something that was recognisably similar to the proper dish if you squinted and were kind.

My greatest triumph came on our fifth evening. Having finally understood the local mushrooms, having learned which butter to buy and which cream would hold its shape, I produced a mushroom sauce over fresh pasta that actually tasted intended. My partner said so without prompting, which in our relationship is the highest culinary praise. We ate it with the last of a decent Polish white wine, some of the good bread, and that honey drizzled over cheese for dessert. The evening was cool enough for jumpers, the kitchen warm from cooking, and I felt briefly like a person who understood something important about how to live.

We left with jars of that honey, several strings of dried mushrooms, and a new appreciation for what happens when you attempt to cook in a place where the ingredients have not travelled far and the people selling them still remember how things ought to taste. I also left with the caraway crackers, which I had finished out of sheer bloody-mindedness and never wish to encounter again. Some holiday lessons are sweeter than others.