I have never been particularly good with satnavs, so it will surprise absolutely no one that I managed to programme the wrong Wilimy into ours and spent a good forty minutes driving confidently towards a field full of extremely unimpressed cows. My partner, who had been dozing in the passenger seat, woke up to my sheepish U-turn and simply said, "Same time next year then?" We eventually found the proper Wilimy near Piecki, a proper Masurian village surrounded by lakes and pine forests, and I have rarely been so relieved to see a wooden gate.

The wilimy itself was one of those traditional Polish country houses, all timber beams and steeply pitched roof, with a veranda that looked like it had been designed specifically for drinking cold beer while pretending to read a book. But what struck me first was the kitchen. I am not exaggerating when I say it was roughly the size of my entire flat back in Leeds. A proper farmhouse table, an ancient but apparently indestructible gas cooker, and windows that opened onto a garden thick with raspberry canes and what I later learned were wild dill patches. I stood there with my carrier bags of emergency motorway snacks feeling simultaneously thrilled and deeply inadequate.

We had arrived on market day in Piecki, entirely by accident, and I had already bought more than I could carry. Smoked sausage from a man who communicated exclusively through meaningful grunts. Cheese that the seller described as "for strong people," which I chose to take as a compliment. Pickled mushrooms in a jar with a handwritten label. A loaf of bread so dense it could have been used as a defensive weapon. My partner, who possesses actual cooking ability, looked at my haul with the expression of someone being asked to perform alchemy.

That first evening, we attempted something I grandly called "rustic Polish tapas," which was essentially me arranging cold cuts on a plate while swigging Zywiec and declaring it authentic. The sausage was magnificent, smoky and garlicky, proper butcher's work. The cheese was indeed for strong people, by which I mean it nearly took the roof of my mouth off. We ate on that veranda as the light faded, watching bats emerge from the eaves, and I felt genuinely emotional about a meal that had required zero actual cooking.

The following morning brought my first attempt at proper self-catering, and I use the word "attempt" with precision. The wilimy had a proper old frying pan, blackened and slightly warped, the kind that retains the memory of every meal ever cooked in it. I had purchased eggs from a neighbour, proper free-range ones with feathers still stuck to the carton and yolks the colour of a traffic cone. I wanted to do them justice. I failed. The pan was either too hot or too cold, I could not tell which, and I produced something that my partner kindly described as "deconstructed." The bread, at least, was excellent with butter and the wild raspberry jam I had found at the back of the kitchen cupboard, presumably left by some previous guest with more sense than to attempt hot food.

By day three, I had established a workable system. Breakfast was bread, cheese, and whatever fruit I could forage from the garden without falling into the nettles. Lunch was market leftovers eaten at whichever lake we had cycled to that morning. But dinner became my partner's domain, a sensible division of labour that prevented actual kitchen fires. They made pierogi with potatoes and cheese, proper hand-cranked dumplings that we boiled in batches and fried in butter with onions. I was allowed to chop things under supervision. The kitchen filled with steam and the smell of caramelising onion, and we ate until we could not move, then ate some more because cold pierogi at midnight somehow seemed essential.

The local shop in Piecki became my daily pilgrimage. It was one of those village shops where the stock seemed curated by someone with fascinating priorities: fifty varieties of pickled vegetable, inexplicable German biscuits, and always, always fresh pierogi dough if you arrived before ten. I became embarrassingly familiar with the woman behind the counter, who began greeting me with a resigned smile and would sometimes produce things from under the counter, special stock for regulars, she implied, though I suspect she simply felt sorry for me.

One rainy afternoon, convinced by my limited success with chopping, I attempted golabki. The cabbage from the garden was enormous, the leaves like green leather. I did not blanch them properly. They tore, they cracked, they refused to roll. What emerged from the oven three hours later was less a traditional Polish dish and more a casserole with identity issues. We ate it anyway, with more of that dangerous cheese and several beers, and laughed until our sides hurt. Some meals are not about technique.

The market on our final morning was bittersweet. I bought too much again, knowing I could not possibly consume it, unable to stop myself. More sausage, more cheese, honey with the comb still in it, little pastries filled with poppy seed that crumbled everywhere the moment you touched them. The grunt man nodded at me, a promotion from stranger to recognised idiot. I packed it all in the car alongside our bags, already planning how we might preserve things, knowing full well we would simply eat it all on the drive back while making increasingly pained noises about portion control.

We left the wilimy with the fridge deliberately emptied, a point of pride, and a notebook full of recipes I had half-remembered from watching my partner work. I have not yet attempted pierogi alone. Some things require witnesses, and someone to call the fire brigade. But I still have a jar of that honey, nearly finished now, and every spoonful tastes of that kitchen, that garden, and the particular happiness of being bad at something in a beautiful place, surrounded by people patient enough to let you try.