I have never been more grateful for a sat nav than I was driving into Pula last summer, mostly because mine had decided to give up the ghost somewhere around Trieste and I spent a good forty minutes circling what I later learned was the same roundabout three times. There is something deeply humbling about being outsmarted by a piece of Italian road furniture. I eventually pulled into a petrol station, bought a paper map like it was 1987, and found my way to the villa with the sort of triumphant relief usually reserved for finishing a marathon or finding your glasses on your own head.

The property sat down a quiet lane, all terracotta roof and whitewashed walls, with an olive tree in the garden that looked older than most countries. I dumped my bags, opened the fridge, and found it pleasingly empty. This was deliberate. I had plans. Grand plans. I was going to cook my way through Istria like some sort of budget Anthony Bourdain, minus the camera crew and the existential wisdom.

My first stop was the Pula market, just a short wander from the old town centre. I arrived at half eight, which apparently made me late by local standards. Stall holders were already packing down the best of their morning produce, and I found myself in a polite but firm scrum for the last of the wild asparagus. An elderly woman in a floral apron beat me to it, then took pity on my obvious foreignness and handed me a bundle with a stream of Croatian I did not understand but gratefully accepted. I also bought tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, a hunk of Istrian cheese that the vendor cut from a wheel the size of a car tyre, and olive oil so green it looked radioactive.

Back at the villa, I attempted my first meal. The kitchen was well-equipped, which is to say it had more gadgets than I knew what to do with and a grill pan I would become obsessed with. I made a simple pasta with the asparagus, garlic, and cheese. It was, if I am honest, slightly too al dente because I got distracted by a gecko on the ceiling and forgot to set a timer. I ate it on the terrace with a glass of local Malvasia, feeling absurdly pleased with myself, gecko and all.

The following evening I abandoned cooking and walked to a konoba near the harbour, one of those family-run places with checked tablecloths and a menu that changes depending on what the fisherman brought in that morning. I had brodetto, a fish stew so rich and red with wine and tomato that I mopped the bowl with bread in a manner that would have horrified my mother. The waiter brought me a grappa afterwards, unprompted, and watched me drink it with the expression of a man placing a bet.

I became a regular at the market over the next few days. I learned which stall had the best prsut, the Istrian cured ham that puts most prosciutto to shame. I discovered that buying truffles in season requires cash and a certain ruthlessness. I attempted to make fuzi, the local hand-rolled pasta, and produced something that tasted correct but looked like it had been assembled by a toddler. No matter. I smothered it in truffle butter and ate the lot, standing at the kitchen counter in my pants, which is how all the best holiday meals should be consumed.

One afternoon I found a tiny bar near the Roman amphitheatre, more of a hole in the wall really, run by a man who poured Teran wine like he was conducting an orchestra. I sat there for two hours, drinking and eating anchovies marinated in lemon and garlic, watching tourists circle the arena with maps and sun hats. I felt smug and local and slightly drunk, which is a dangerous combination.

The mishap, because there is always one, came on my final morning. I had grand plans for a last breakfast of market eggs, prsut, and cheese. I cracked the first egg into the pan and realised, too late, that I had somehow bought a dozen duck eggs, which I had never cooked before and which behave nothing like hen eggs. The result was a white that spread across the pan like a failed science experiment and a yolk that remained stubbornly raw in the middle. I ate it anyway, standing on the terrace, watching the olive tree sway in the morning heat. Some things do not need to be perfect to be good. That became my holiday motto, mostly because I had no alternative.

I left Pula fuller than I had arrived, and slightly wiser about eggs. The sat nav worked perfectly on the drive home, which felt like a personal insult.