I have never been so happy to see a sign for a Lidl in my entire life. There we were, trundling down the D8 from Zadar, windows down, Dalmatian coast glittering to our left, me confidently telling my partner that I had packed everything we needed for a self-catering week. "We're sorted," I said, patting the cool bag at my feet like a faithful dog. "Olive oil, sea salt, the lot."

Reader, I had not packed the lot. What I had packed was a jar of Marmite, some out-of-date oregano, and three tins of chickpeas that had been living in our cupboard since approximately 2016. The olive oil was still on our kitchen counter in Sheffield, probably having a lovely time without us.

The property, when we finally found it, was one of those boxy modern numbers tucked into Starigrad-Paklenica, all clean lines and terracotta roof tiles. The sort of place that looks like it belongs in an architect's mood board. Our host, a chap called Davor with forearms like oak branches, handed over the keys and mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that the nearest decent supermarket was back towards Zadar unless we fancied the local Konzum. I nodded like I knew what a Konzum was. I did not know what a Konzum was.

The first evening, determined to cook properly, we walked down to Starigrad's harbour front. The smell of grilled fish hit us before we could see the water, that gorgeous charcoal-and-adriatic perfume that makes your stomach do a little flip. We found a konoba, one of those family-run places with plastic tablecloths and absolutely no pretension, and ate grilled sardines so fresh they practically introduced themselves. The waiter, who introduced himself as Branko and whose English was roughly equal to my Croatian (nil), communicated entirely through pointing and enthusiastic thumbs-ups. It was magnificent. We drank house wine that tasted like someone had bottled a sunny afternoon and stumbled home slightly squiffy, resolving to shop properly in the morning.

The morning was less successful. The local market, it transpired, operates on what I can only describe as "Mediterranean time," which is to say we arrived at half eight to find three stalls open and one grumpy-looking woman selling nothing but enormous cabbages. I bought a cabbage out of politeness. It weighed approximately the same as a bowling ball and accompanied us everywhere for the next three days like a green, leafy conscience.

The Konzum, when we located it, was an education. Croatian supermarkets have entire aisles dedicated to things I could not identify, packaged in colours I did not recognise. I stood before a wall of dried fish products for a solid five minutes, genuinely unsure if I was looking at ingredients or decorations. We emerged with some prsut, which is Dalmatian cured ham and absolutely tremendous, a hunk of Pag cheese that the cashier seemed impressed by, and something labelled "ajvar" that I later learned was roasted pepper spread and not, as I had assumed, a type of bathroom cleaner.

Back at the property, I attempted to construct a meal. The kitchen was genuinely lovely, all glossy surfaces and proper knives, the sort of setup that makes you feel like you could be on television. I was not on television. I was in a small Croatian holiday home trying to make pasta with prsut and my enormous cabbage. The result was edible, technically, though my partner's face suggested "edible" was doing rather heavy lifting. We opened more wine. The wine helped.

By day three, I had surrendered to reality. We fell into a glorious routine of morning coffee at the property, a wander down to the harbour, and lunch at whichever konoba looked busiest. I became weirdly obsessed with a place called Ante's, mostly because Ante himself kept bringing us free shots of rakija "for digestion" despite our protests that it was eleven in the morning. "Is good," he would insist, already pouring. It was good. It was also approximately forty percent alcohol and made the walk back up to our accommodation feel like a mild mountaineering expedition.

The proper market, we eventually discovered, happens on Saturdays. We found it by accident, wandering through Starigrad's centre and suddenly encountering what felt like the entire town gathered in a car park. Tables groaned under tomatoes that actually smelled like tomatoes, enormous bunches of wild asparagus, and fresh sardines laid out on ice like silver jewellery. I bought too much of everything, as one does, and spent that evening in our little holiday kitchen attempting something approaching a proper Dalmatian peka, though without the traditional bell lid or, crucially, any idea what I was doing. The potatoes were tremendous. The octopus was chewy in a way that suggested it had died in vain. We ate it anyway, sitting on our terrace with the Velebit mountains dark against the sunset, feeling deeply pleased with ourselves.

The Marmite, incidentally, never got opened. Some things, I have learned, simply do not belong in Dalmatia.