I have never been so relieved to see a set of traffic lights as I was when we finally crawled into Makarska after what felt like seventeen hours of driving from Split Airport. In reality it was ninety minutes, but try telling that to my stomach, which had started digesting itself somewhere around Omis. The small mishap? I had confidently told my wife I would navigate us there without GPS, armed with nothing but a screenshot of a map and misplaced faith in my own sense of direction. We ended up in a village so tiny it barely had a name, let alone a signpost back to civilisation. A farmer waved us around, his expression suggesting this was not the first time a lost Brit had disturbed his afternoon.

The apartment itself was on the first floor of a stone building that looked like it had been there since someone first thought "this coast is rather nice." I dumped the bags, threw open the shutters, and promptly forgot every wrong turn. The balcony looked straight out over the Biokovo mountains on one side and a glimpse of the Adriatic on the other. My wife opened the fridge, which contained a single bottle of local wine left by the owner and absolutely nothing else. "Right," she said. "Food."

Makarska's main market sits along the waterfront, a sprawl of stalls under striped awnings that smell of figs, cheese, and the particular confidence of people who have grown everything themselves. I am normally a supermarket person. I like packaging. I like best-before dates. I like not having to point at things and hope. But within ten minutes I was holding a paper bag of tomatoes so ripe they were practically introducing themselves, a hunk of Dalmatian prsut that the vendor sliced with theatrical precision, and a bottle of olive oil he insisted I smell first, as if I knew what I was looking for.

That first evening we attempted a simple supper on the balcony. The apartment kitchen was compact but surprisingly well-equipped, which only encouraged my delusion that I could cook like a local. I tore the bread, arranged the prsut with what I imagined was rustic flair, and attempted to dress the tomatoes with olive oil, garlic, and sea salt. The result was edible, which sounds faint praise but honestly exceeded my expectations. The wine helped. The wine, sourced from a small shop near the harbour whose owner spoke approximately six words of English and used them all to recommend this particular bottle, helped enormously.

By day three I had developed what I can only describe as a routine. Morning coffee on the balcony, watching the town wake up. Then a wander down to the market for whatever looked good, which was everything. I became peculiarly attached to a cheese stall run by a woman who remembered me by the second visit and started selecting things before I opened my mouth. There was a young goat cheese that I initially bought by accident, thinking it was something else entirely, and which turned out to be the best mistake of the holiday. I ate it with figs from the next stall and felt briefly like a person who understood food.

The harbour restaurants were harder to resist than I had planned. I had intended to cook most evenings, to justify the market habit, to be economical and virtuous. Instead I found myself at a konoba near the water, eating grilled fish that had been swimming that morning, watching the boats bob and pretending I belonged there. The waiters were friendly in that particular Dalmatian way that suggests they have seen every kind of tourist and still find something to smile about. One evening I ordered octopus salad after three glasses of grappa at a nearby bar, a decision I do not regret though my wife's expression suggested she was keeping notes for future reference.

Speaking of bars, there was one tucked up a side street, no view to speak of, just a few tables outside and a television showing football with the volume too low to hear. I stopped there on the way back from the market one afternoon, meaning to have one beer. I left two hours later with recommendations for three different local wines, a vague understanding of Croatian football politics, and an invitation to a barbecue that I was too sensible to accept. The barman made a cocktail with local maraschino that tasted like summer in liquid form, which sounds pretentious but is simply true.

My cooking attempts improved marginally as the week went on. I learned that Dalmatian cuisine is not complicated, which was good news for me. Fresh ingredients, olive oil, some garlic, perhaps a bit of lemon. The fish market opened early, too early for my holiday brain, but I managed one morning and came back with sardines that I grilled on a tiny balcony barbecue I found in a cupboard. They stuck to the grill, fell apart, and tasted absolutely brilliant. My wife photographed the disaster for posterity. We ate them with our fingers, picking out bones, watching the sun drop behind the mountains.

The gentle self-reflection came on our last evening. I was attempting to recreate a simple pasta dish I had eaten at a restaurant near the Franciscan monastery, something with prawns and white wine and a sauce I could not quite master. The result was fine. It was not the restaurant version. But standing in that small kitchen, smelling garlic and wine reduction, listening to my wife set the balcony table, I realised I had spent a week caring about food in a way I do not at home. Not in a pretentious way. Just in an attentive way. Noticing what was good. Letting it be simple. Not rushing.

We finished the last of the market cheese with the last of the wine. The farmer's lost tourists felt like a different person, someone who needed everything planned and confirmed. I had become someone who could wander into a market without a list, point at things hopefully, and trust that dinner would sort itself out. It usually did. It usually does, if you let it.

I have the cheese woman's card in my wallet still. I am not sure what I think I will do with it. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps that is the point.