I have never been so relieved to see a set of traffic lights as I was when we finally crawled into Split after what I can only describe as the most spectacular navigation failure of my adult life. My partner had insisted on taking the scenic route from the airport, which in theory meant coastal views and olive groves, but in practice meant three hours of winding mountain roads, a near-miss with a goat, and me quietly developing a hatred for the word "shortcut." By the time we reached our Split Sine apartment, I was ready to eat my own shoe.

The property itself, perched on the edge of the Central Dalmatian Riviera, immediately made me forget the trauma. A proper Dalmatian stone house with terracotta tiles and shutters that actually worked, it had that wonderful faded grandeur you cannot fake. But what truly saved my sanity was the kitchen. I say kitchen - it was more of a culinary cockpit, compact but alarmingly well-equipped, with a view over the harbour that made me want to weep with gratitude. Or perhaps that was just hunger.

We had arrived on a Saturday, which any fool knows is market day at Pazar, the green market just east of Diocletian's Palace. Any fool except me, apparently, who had done precisely zero research. My partner, still smug about the scenic route, suggested we simply wander down and see what we could find. What we found was chaos and glory in equal measure. Stalls heaped with tomatoes so red they looked painted, bundles of wild asparagus, great tubs of olives glistening in brine, and old women who clearly had opinions about my selection technique. One grandmother physically removed a courgette from my hand and replaced it with another, muttering what I can only assume was constructive criticism in rapid Croatian. I thanked her like a well-trained child.

That first evening we attempted a simple peka-style dinner, which in my mind meant throwing various meats and vegetables into the apartment's oven and hoping for the best. The Split Sine had provided one of those heavy lidded dishes that Dalmatian cooking demands, and I was determined to use it. Four hours later we sat on our terrace with something that resembled food, drinking a bottle of Plavac Mali from a local konoba, watching the ferries slide across the water. Was it authentic? Probably not. Did we finish every scrap while making embarrassing noises of satisfaction? Absolutely.

The following days established a rhythm I could happily live in forever. Morning coffee from the apartment's proper stovetop pot, strong enough to wake the dead. A stroll to the Riva promenade for breakfast at one of the little bakeries, where we developed serious dependencies on burek and krafne filled with apricot. Then the serious business of planning lunch.

We found a tiny konoba called something unpronounceable about ten minutes walk towards Bacvice beach, where the owner grilled fish that had been swimming that morning and served it with nothing more than olive oil, lemon, and potatoes boiled in seawater. I am not a religious man, but I considered converting to whatever faith this man practised. His wife made a rozata, a Dalmatian custard pudding, that made me genuinely emotional. I told her so in broken phrasebook Croatian, and she patted my arm like I was a simple but harmless creature.

Back at the Split Sine, we attempted to recreate his grilled fish on the apartment's small barbecue. The results were edible, which is the most generous thing I can say. The problem, I decided, was not our technique but our lack of sixty years of inherited knowledge and a proper wood fire. We compensated by opening another bottle of wine and declaring the experiment a moral victory.

The apartment's location proved perfect for our increasingly food-obsessed routine. Each evening we would walk to a different neighbourhood konoba or wine bar, never more than fifteen minutes away, sampling prsut and Pag cheese, arguing about whether this olive oil was better than yesterday's olive oil, becoming the sort of people we would normally find insufferable. One night we discovered a place near the palace that served octopus salad so tender it barely required chewing, accompanied by a white wine from Korcula that tasted of stones and sunshine. I may have photographed my plate. I am not proud.

By our final morning, the Pazar market felt familiar rather than intimidating. I selected my own courgettes without assistance, bought a bottle of homemade Maraschino from a man who filled it from a plastic drum, and carried home bread still warm from the bakery. We made one last breakfast on the terrace, watching the early ferries, already planning what we would cook when we returned.

Because we will return. The Split Sine has ruined me for ordinary holidays. I now judge all accommodation by its proximity to fresh fish and its willingness to forgive cooking disasters. This place passed with honours.