I have never been so happy to see a sign for a Lidl in my life, and I say that as someone who once drove past one in Luton without so much as a glance.

The journey to Ciovo had been one of those classic British holiday specials. Sat nav confusion at Split airport, a rental car that smelled faintly of fish and regret, and then the pièce de résistance: me, at a roundabout near Trogir, misreading a sign and somehow ending up on a road that appeared to lead exclusively to olive groves and existential dread. Forty minutes of increasingly narrow lanes later, I found myself in what I can only describe as a parking area belonging to someone's grandmother. She was not pleased. I was not pleased. The tomatoes growing in her garden, however, looked absolutely magnificent, and I made a mental note that would later prove significant.

When I finally arrived at the property in Okrug Gornji, I was too frazzled to appreciate much beyond the fact that the key was where it should be and the air conditioning worked. It was only after a cold shower and a sit-down on the terrace that I began to notice my surroundings properly. The view across the water towards Trogir's old town. The scent of pine and salt. And, most pressingly, the complete absence of anything resembling dinner.

This is where my Lidl epiphany came in. I had spotted it during my accidental tour of the island's interior, and now I clung to that memory like a lifeline. The drive back was mercifully brief, and I emerged with a basket full of intentions: local pršut, a hunk of Pag cheese, some suspiciously cheap olive oil, and tomatoes that looked nothing like the ones in my grandmother's garden but would have to do.

Back at the apartment, I discovered the grill on the terrace. This was to become both my greatest joy and my most humbling teacher. That first evening, I managed to produce something that was technically edible, though the pršut had gone slightly crispy in a way that would make any Dalmatian weep. I ate it on the terrace with a glass of supermarket wine, watching the lights across the water, and decided that this was absolutely the life for me.

The next morning, I found the local market in Trogir. This required another drive, another roundabout, and another moment of confusion involving a one-way system that seemed designed by someone with a grudge against tourists. But the market itself was worth every bead of sweat. Fresh sardines gleaming on beds of ice. Bunches of herbs that I couldn't name but wanted to buy anyway. An old woman selling figs from a cardboard box who spoke no English but communicated volumes through gestures and the universal language of insisting I taste before I buy.

I bought too much, obviously. This became a theme.

That afternoon, I attempted to cook those sardines. The apartment kitchen was better equipped than I deserved, but my technique was lacking. I watched a video on my phone, paused it, tried to replicate what I'd seen, and produced something that looked more like fish-shaped charcoal. I ate bread and cheese on the terrace instead, and made a note to find somewhere that would cook for me.

This led me to Konoba Martinis, a short stroll along the coast. I had walked past it earlier, drawn by the smell of something roasting and the sound of proper conversation. That evening, I ate grilled fish that someone competent had prepared, drank local wine that tasted of sunshine and minerals, and felt a profound sense of relief. The waiter recommended I try the peka if I returned, and I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

I returned. I learned. And I spent my final evening back at the apartment, having finally mastered the grill to a degree that wouldn't shame me, eating pršut that I had not crisped beyond recognition, with tomatoes that were almost as good as my accidental grandmother's.

I still think about those tomatoes.