I have never been so relieved to see a sign for Aljmas in my life, and that includes the time I got lost in a Manchester IKEA for three hours. The drive from Zagreb had been straightforward enough, but somewhere after Osijek I decided my phone's GPS was "probably wrong" and took what I can only describe as a scenic detour through what felt like every cabbage field in eastern Croatia. By the time I spotted the village sign, I had named three of the cabbages and was considering a career in agriculture.

The property itself, a proper little holiday home with a terrace that looked out towards the Drava river plain, was an immediate sight for sore eyes. I had grand plans for that first evening. Grand plans involving the local market I had spotted in Osijek, a bottle of something decent, and me finally using the outdoor grill like the competent adult I absolutely am not.

The market in Osijek, held near the cathedral, was everything I had hoped for. Stall after stall of paprika in every shade from sunset orange to deep brick red, fresh white cheese that the vendor let me sample with a knowing smile, and sausages that looked like they meant business. I bought far too much of everything, which is my standard approach to markets anywhere in the world. A kilo of prsut because it smelled incredible, three types of paprika because I panicked under pressure, vegetables I did not recognise but felt emotionally connected to, and bread from a bakery where the queue moved with the unhurried confidence of people who know good dough takes time.

Back at the house, I uncorked a bottle of Graševina and set about my grill master performance. The first batch of cevapi went on with tremendous optimism. They stuck immediately, fell through the bars, and I watched my dinner descend into the coals with the slow-motion horror of a bad dream. I salvaged what I could, ate slightly carbonised meat with my fingers standing up, and decided tomorrow would be different.

It was not different. The next morning I walked to the small shop in Aljmas for essentials and came back with more sausage, a local beer called Pan, and absolutely no milk or coffee. Priorities, I have decided, are deeply personal. I made proper coffee on the stove eventually, after three failed attempts and one near-boiling incident that taught me respect for Croatian domestic equipment.

The local konoba, a proper family-run place ten minutes walk away, became my salvation. The kind of spot where the menu is whatever they feel like cooking and the wine comes in a carafe with no pretence. I ate fish paprikash that made my eyes water, in the good way, and a pork stew with homemade noodles that I still think about on rainy Tuesdays. The owner, a woman whose hands looked like they had prepared ten thousand meals, watched me eat with the satisfaction of someone who knows her work is appreciated. I went back three times. She started recognising me and bringing extra bread without asking.

I did manage one successful meal at the house eventually. A simple affair of fresh cheese, tomatoes, that incredible bread, and prsut arranged on a plate with all the artistry of someone who has given up on cooking but not on eating well. I ate it on the terrace as the sun went down, drinking another Graševina, watching the flat landscape turn gold and then purple.

The grill and I made peace on my final evening. Chicken thighs, marinated in garlic and paprika with the guidance of a YouTube video and sheer desperation. They were edible. They were, by my low standards, good. I ate them with my hands again, because some habits are worth keeping, and raised a glass to the cabbages that had started it all.

I left Aljmas with a bag of paprika in my luggage, a recipe for fish paprikash scribbled on a napkin, and the certain knowledge that some holidays are not about what you cook, but about what you eat, who feeds you, and the stories you bring home along with the indigestion.