I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through what looked suspiciously like someone's back garden. There I was, winding through the Kashubian Lake District in a hire car that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and regret, convinced I was about to become a local legend for all the wrong reasons. The mishap came just outside Kartuzy itself, when I followed the device's cheerful instructions down a lane barely wide enough for a determined bicycle, only to find myself face to face with a tractor and a farmer whose expression suggested this happened more often than you'd think. Three-point turns have never been my strong suit. By the time I reversed past a startled-looking goose and found the proper road, I'd acquired an audience of three dogs and what I can only assume was a very amused postman.

The holiday home itself, when I finally arrived, was something of a relief. A proper wooden cottage with that satisfying creak of authenticity, set among trees with a garden that looked like it had been arranged by someone who understood the value of a good afternoon doze. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a man who had earned his supper several times over, then immediately turned my attention to what really mattered: finding something to eat.

The kitchen, I discovered, was genuinely decent. Not one of those holiday rentals where you're expected to prepare a feast using a blunt knife and a saucepan with questionable allegiances. I had plans for this kitchen. Grand plans. But first, I needed supplies, and that meant the Kartuzy market.

The following morning I wandered into town with an empty rucksack and entirely too much optimism. The market was already busy, stalls arranged with the organised chaos that only seems to happen in places where people actually know what they're buying. I found a woman selling smoked fish from the lakes, the smell of it wrapping around me like an old blanket. She spoke no English and my Polish extends to approximately seven words, six of which are probably mispronounced. We managed through pointing, smiling, and what I suspect was her taking pity on me. I left with a magnificent trout, some of that Kashubian cheese I'd read about, and a small jar of honey that she mimed was from her own bees. I believed her. You don't argue with someone who keeps bees.

The cheese became my first self-catering casualty. I had grand visions of incorporating it into some sophisticated supper, perhaps melted with local mushrooms in a delicate sauce. What actually happened was that I ate most of it standing at the kitchen counter in my socks, directly from the wrapper, making small noises of contentment that I'm glad no one else witnessed. The remaining portion went into an omelette the next morning that I can only describe as adequate. The problem with holiday cooking is that ambition rarely survives contact with unfamiliar hobs and the relaxed attitude to timing that comes with being officially on leave.

The trout, however, was where I intended to redeem myself. I had watched the fishmonger woman with her practised hands and determined to honour her product. I prepared it simply, with butter and dill from a pot I'd spotted in the garden, roasted slowly while I sat outside with a beer that had gone properly warm in the way continental lagers somehow manage. The result was better than adequate. It was genuinely good, and I sat there in the fading light feeling disproportionately pleased with myself, as if I'd achieved something significant rather than merely not ruined a very forgiving piece of fish.

I made several more trips to that market over the week, gradually building a rapport with various stallholders that consisted mainly of me being recognised and them looking faintly amused. I bought sourdough from a baker who communicated entirely through gestures indicating crust quality, sausages from a man who insisted I try a sample and then looked personally offended when I didn't immediately purchase three times as much, and vegetables that I mostly turned into soups of varying success. One particular attempt at a Kashubian-inspired stew involved cabbage, pork from a local butcher who drew me a diagram of the cut I wanted, and what I thought was a sensible amount of caraway. It was not a sensible amount of caraway. I ate it anyway, over three long evenings, each bowl a lesson in humility.

The garden produced raspberries that I gathered each morning, ostensibly for breakfast but mostly eaten during the gathering process. I made one proper dessert with them, a clumsy affair involving meringue that wept slightly and cream that I hadn't quite whipped enough, but which tasted of August and effort and the particular satisfaction of eating something that grew within throwing distance of where you slept.

By the end of the week, my relationship with that kitchen had become complicated. I'd produced meals I was genuinely proud of and others that I quietly disposed of, learned that local butter makes almost anything forgivable, and developed an unhealthy attachment to a particular wooden spoon I found in the drawer. The market visits had become the rhythm of the days, each return journey with my rucksack heavier and my plans more optimistic than the last.

On my final evening, I cooked the last of my supplies with the relaxed competence of someone who had stopped trying to impress anyone, including himself. I ate slowly, watching the light change through the trees, already thinking about what I might have done differently and what I'd do exactly the same. The sat nav, I had already decided, could find its own way home.