I have never been more grateful for a sat nav than I was driving down to Sreser on the Peljesac peninsula. My other half had insisted we could "just wing it" from Dubrovnik airport, which is how we ended up on a dirt track somewhere near Ston, arguing about whether goats counted as reliable landmarks. Three hours, one very tense U-turn, and a minor incident involving a low-hanging olive branch and our hire car's aerial later, we finally spotted the sea glinting through the pines and knew we'd arrived.

The villa itself sat perched above a small pebble cove, all terracotta roofs and whitewashed walls that looked almost aggressively picturesque against the blue water. I was still brushing olive leaves off my shirt when we dumped our bags and immediately headed for the kitchen, because nothing says "holiday begins now" like realising you've forgotten to eat since a sad airport panini at six that morning.

The kitchen at the Peljesac Sreser was one of those gloriously practical Dalmatian affairs - terracotta tiles, wooden beams, and a proper gas hob that looked like it had cooked a thousand fish suppers. We flung open the fridge to find it empty except for a half-empty bottle of rakija left by previous guests, which my other half sampled with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just survived my driving. I use "sampled" loosely; he knocked back a generous slug and spent the next ten minutes doing an impressive impression of a kettle coming to the boil.

By now it was past eight and the local konoba was calling our names. We stumbled down to Sreser's tiny harbour front, where a handful of restaurants had set out their tables practically on the water's edge. We chose one based entirely on the fact that an elderly local was eating there alone with a newspaper, which I've always considered the most reliable review system going. The grilled squid arrived charred and tender, dressed with nothing more than olive oil, garlic, and parsley, alongside a mound of blitva - that classic Dalmatian combination of chard and potatoes that tastes of simplicity done properly. We washed it down with a carafe of local Plavac Mali, because when in Rome, or rather when in a fishing village on a Croatian peninsula, you drink the rough red wine and you thank it for its service.

The next morning I woke with ambitions. The owner had mentioned a small market in nearby Drace, perhaps ten minutes up the coast, where local fishermen sold their catch straight off the boats. I dragged my slightly hungover companion there before he'd properly finished his coffee, which he considered a human rights violation. The market was nothing fancy - a few stalls under canvas awnings, crates of tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, bunches of herbs tied with string, and a man filleting sardines with the casual expertise of someone who'd been doing it since before he could walk.

I bought too much, obviously. A bag of mussels that clattered together like castanets. Some prawns with their whiskers still waving accusingly at me. Tomatoes so ripe they bruised if you looked at them wrong. A hunk of prsut, that Dalmatian prosciutto, shaved paper-thin by a woman who clearly found my attempts at Croatian charmingly terrible. Some local cheese called paski sir, sharp and crumbly, which I kept nibbling until my other half slapped my hand away.

Back at the villa, I attempted my grand seafood feast. The mussels went into a pot with white wine, garlic, and what I thought was parsley but might have been something more adventurous from the garden. The prawns I intended to grill simply, but got distracted by the view from the terrace and slightly cremated them. We ate them anyway, sitting outside as the sun went down, picking bits of charred shell from our fingers and agreeing that everything tastes better when you've got salt on your lips and nowhere to be.

The local pub, if you can call it that, was really just the bar attached to another konoba further along the shore. We found it on our third evening, drawn by the sound of someone murdering Croatian folk songs on a guitar. The barman, a enormous man called Toni with hands like shovels, poured us glasses of loza, that grappa-like firewater that strips the lining from your throat and replaces it with something more interesting. We got talking, or rather gesticulating, with a group of locals who found our attempts to describe English cooking absolutely hilarious. One of them, a retired fisherman called Ivan, insisted on buying us another round and explaining, through elaborate charades, the proper way to prepare brodet, that fish stew that every Dalmatian grandmother claims to make best.

I attempted brodet the following evening. It involved three types of fish from Toni's cousin, a bottle of wine that should probably have gone into the pot rather than my glass, and a moment of genuine panic when I realised I had no idea which bits of the fish were meant to stay attached. The result was more of a fish soup than a stew, slightly cloudy and with a few bones that announced themselves unpleasantly, but we ate it on the terrace with crusty bread and that dangerous rakija, and I felt genuinely proud of myself in a way that no restaurant meal has ever managed.

By the end of the week, our routine had settled into something glorious. Morning coffee on the terrace, watching the fishing boats putter out. A trip to Drace for whatever looked good, or sometimes just to Toni's for a beer and a plate of anchovies dressed in oil and vinegar. Afternoons of attempted cooking, with my other half appointed official taster and emergency fire extinguisher. Evenings at the konoba when our own efforts failed us, which happened more often than I'll admit, eating grilled fish that tasted of the sea and wine that tasted of the sun.

On our last night, we walked down to the harbour and found Ivan sitting at his usual table. He waved us over and insisted we share his octopus salad, which he'd apparently been tenderising by hand for hours, beating it against a rock in the traditional way. It was extraordinary - soft, almost creamy, dressed with potato and onion and that ubiquitous parsley. We tried to pay; he wouldn't hear of it. Instead he poured us more loza and made us promise we'd come back, which sitting there with the water lapping at the wall and the stars coming out over the peninsula, seemed like the easiest promise in the world.

I left Sreser several pounds heavier, with olive oil stains on my favourite shirt, and a newfound respect for anyone who can fillet a fish without ending up wearing most of it. Some holidays you remember for the sights; this one I'll remember for the tastes, the burnt prawns and the cloudy brodet and that perfect octopus, eaten with strangers who became friends over shared food and terrible pronunciation.