I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to pack three bottles of olive oil and forget my driving licence. There we were, my partner and me, halfway down the M1 before I remembered, which meant a frantic turnaround and a very sheepish arrival at Stansted with just enough time to buy an overpriced sandwich and question my life choices.

The flight to Zadar was mercifully short, and the drive up to Novalja on Pag island took us along some genuinely stunning coastal roads. Kvarner Bay opened up before us, all glittering blue and rocky islands, and for a moment I forgot about the olive oil debacle entirely. Then we reached the property, a lovely little place with its own terrace and a barbecue that immediately became the centre of all my ambitions.

I had grand plans, you see. I was going to cook like a local. I had visions of myself at the outdoor grill, turning seabream with the confidence of a Croatian fisherman, perhaps accepting applause from neighbouring villas. The reality, as ever, was rather different.

Our first morning, we drove the few minutes into Novalja town to find the market. I love a foreign food market; the chaos, the shouting, the cheese that looks at you slightly accusingly. This one did not disappoint. We found a stall selling Pag cheese, that famous sharp sheep's milk variety that the island is known for, and I bought far too much of it along with some prsut, the local dried ham. The woman selling it to me seemed deeply sceptical about my ability to transport it without disaster, and frankly she had my measure.

That evening, armed with our market haul, I attempted my first barbecue. The property had a lovely covered terrace with a proper stone grill, and I had watched approximately zero instructional videos. The seabream I had proudly selected from a fishmonger near the harbour took an age to cook, and I spent most of that time standing over it with a beer, prodding it anxiously and pretending I knew what "flaking easily" actually meant. My partner was kind enough to eat it without comment, though I noticed she filled up considerably on bread and that excellent cheese.

We ate out properly the next night, wandering down to the waterfront in Novalja where restaurants line the harbour. I had grilled squid that was embarrassingly better than anything I could produce, served simply with potatoes and swiss chard, that slightly bitter green you see everywhere in this part of Croatia. We drank local white wine, a Debit or possibly a Zlahtina, I cannot quite recall, only that it was cold and welcome and we ordered a second bottle with the enthusiasm of people who did not have to drive.

The pubs and bars in town were lively without being overwhelming, mostly filled with families and couples rather than the younger crowd you apparently get later in summer. We found a small konoba, one of those traditional taverns, where an old fellow behind the bar poured us grappa after our meal with a solemnity that suggested he was administering medicine. It certainly tasted medicinal.

By day four, I had abandoned my chef pretensions and settled into a comfortable routine. Breakfast on the terrace with bread from the bakery near the property, tomatoes and that inevitable cheese. Lunch would be something simple from the market, perhaps sardines from a can with excellent olive oil, which I now possessed in frankly industrial quantities. Dinner was either my increasingly modest grill attempts or a stroll to somewhere with proper cooks and no pressure on me whatsoever.

I did attempt one final barbecue flourish on our last evening. Lamb, which Pag is famous for, though I suspect the good stuff comes from actual shepherds rather than supermarket packets. I marinated it with garlic and rosemary from a pot on the terrace, feeling very connected to the land, and managed not to ruin it entirely. We ate it with a simple salad and more of that wine, watching the sun go down over Kvarner Bay, and I reflected that perhaps my talents lay more in appreciation than execution.

The olive oil, incidentally, made it home untouched. Some lessons take longer to learn than others.