I have never been so relieved to see a sign for Peroj in all my life, and that includes the time I got lost trying to find my own kitchen after a midnight fridge raid. The drive down from Pula Airport had been straightforward enough, or so I thought, until I decided I knew better than the sat nav and took what I can only describe as an "adventurous" detour through some olive groves. Three wrong turns and one very patient local farmer later, I finally rolled up to our Fazana Peroj holiday home with gravel crunching beneath the wheels and my dignity firmly in the back seat.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. Not the car, thankfully, though that was hardly showroom fresh after my agricultural excursion. No, it was the mingled scent of rosemary, sea salt, and something else I couldn't quite place. My stomach growled in recognition before my brain caught up. Hunger, that was it. Pure, unadulterated hunger.

The property itself was charming in that solid, no-nonsense Istrian way. Terracotta roof, shuttered windows, a terrace that practically begged for a glass of something cold. But I had priorities, and they all involved carbohydrates. The owners had left a welcome bottle of Malvazija in the fridge, which I eyed respectfully before setting off on my true mission: finding dinner.

Fazana's harbour front was a ten-minute stroll away, and I found myself gravitating towards the konobas like a moth to a very well-lit flame. You know the type, all weathered wood and fishermen nursing tiny coffees, the kind of place where the menu changes depending on what the boats brought in that morning. I ordered buzara, because when in Istria, and spent a happy hour picking langoustines out of their shells and mopping up tomato-wine sauce with bread that crunched audibly when torn. The waiter, a man whose eyebrows suggested he'd seen many tourists before me, actually smiled when I ordered a second basket of bread. A small victory.

The next morning brought what I can only describe as a culinary awakening at the Fazana market. Tiny stalls wedged between fishing boats, old women selling vegetables they'd clearly grown in gardens visible from space, everything arranged with the precision of a military operation. I bought tomatoes that smelled like actual tomatoes, which shouldn't be remarkable but absolutely is, plus some suspiciously cheap prsut from a man who carved it paper-thin while telling me about his nephew in Zagreb. The cheese lady gave me a sample of aged sheep's cheese so pungent I nearly wept, then sold me twice what I'd intended to buy because I am weak and she was strong.

Back at the house, I attempted to recreate something I'd eaten the previous evening. The kitchen was well-equipped, which is to say it had more than one pan and a knife that could actually cut things. I chopped, I sautéed, I reduced. What emerged was recognisably food, which I counted as success given my usual standard. The tomatoes collapsed into a sauce of such sweetness that I found myself eating it with a spoon straight from the pan, standing at the counter like some kind of feral animal. The prsut I simply laid on a plate with cheese and figs, because sometimes the best cooking is knowing when not to bother.

That evening I discovered the local pub, though calling it that feels almost disrespectful. It was more of a front room that happened to serve drinks, run by a couple whose combined age was roughly three hundred and seventeen. He poured Teran, she produced plates of anchovies, and between them they created an atmosphere so comfortable I stayed until the streetlights flickered on and my Croatian vocabulary of "please," "thank you," and "another" had been thoroughly exercised.

The days developed a rhythm I found dangerously easy to settle into. Morning market for whatever looked good, afternoon attempting to cook it, evening finding someone who could do it properly when my attempts failed. I made friends with the baker who opened at six, buying still-warm bread that left flour on my shirt. I learned which fishmonger would clean squid without making me feel pathetic for asking. I discovered that olive oil here is not a condiment but a way of life, and that my previous understanding of its application had been woefully inadequate.

One afternoon I attempted fritaja, the Istrian omelette with wild asparagus. The asparagus I had bought from a woman who communicated entirely through gestures and disapproving noises. The resulting dish was edible, technically, though it bore only a passing resemblance to what I'd eaten at the konoba. I ate it on the terrace with the Malvazija I'd finally opened, watching the sun lower itself towards the water, and decided that perfection was overrated anyway.

The local eating, I realised, was teaching me something I hadn't expected. Not about cooking, though lord knows I needed the practice. It was showing me how to slow down, how to let a meal stretch across an evening, how to talk to strangers over shared plates of sardines and realise you have more in common than you'd think. The pub regulars stopped being polite and started being friendly, which in my experience is the best kind of progress.

By my final evening, I had a routine. Market in the morning for tomatoes and that dangerous cheese, a lazy lunch of bread and prsut on the terrace, then down to the harbour for whatever the boats had brought. I found a table at a place where they remembered my name, or at least my order, and ate grilled fish so fresh it barely needed the lemon I squeezed over it. The waiter with the expressive eyebrows brought me grappa on the house, which I suspect was punishment for something but I drank it anyway.

Walking back to the house, slightly unsteady and thoroughly content, I passed the bakery where my morning ritual began. The lights were off now, but I could smell tomorrow's bread already proving in the darkness. I thought about my failed fritaja, my successful tomato sauce, the cheese that had defeated my best intentions of moderation. I thought about the old couple and their front-room pub, the fishmonger who never charged me for cleaning squid anymore, the way this strange little corner of Istria had fed me in every sense that mattered.

The key turned in the lock, and I stepped inside to the familiar smell of rosemary and sea salt, already planning tomorrow's market route and wondering if I could justify buying more of that pungent cheese. Some questions, I have learned, answer themselves.