I'd been banging on about getting away to somewhere quiet for months, so when we finally booked a week at a Pag Lun in Kvarner Bay, I was absolutely chuffed. The drive down from Rijeka Airport started well enough - sunny skies, the Adriatic glinting through the pines, me feeling terribly continental with the windows down. Then came the mishap. I'd insisted on navigating the old-fashioned way, refusing to surrender to the sat nav, and somehow managed to direct us down what I can only describe as a goat track masquerading as a road. We scraped the hire car's bumper on a low stone wall trying to turn round, and I spent a good ten minutes doing a three-point turn while a local chap watched from his garden, smoking peacefully and clearly having the time of his life. My partner sat in silence. I pretended not to notice.

When we finally found the proper road and rolled up to the stone cottage, I was ready for a proper sulk. But the smell of rosemary from the garden hit me first, then the view of Lun's ancient olive groves stretching down toward the water, and I felt that particular shame of having made a massive fuss about nothing. The place was lovely - simple, solid, with a terrace that practically demanded a glass of something cold.

Within an hour, I'd decided the kitchen was my domain for the week. There's something about a Croatian holiday home kitchen that makes you believe you can cook like a local, even if your usual repertoire stops at spag bol. We headed to Novalja market the next morning, which is about the closest proper town, and I went completely overboard. Fresh octopus, I declared, would be my masterpiece. Local olive oil, obviously. Tomatoes that actually smelled of something. A hunk of Pag cheese that the stallholder practically dared me to try - sharp, salty, utterly glorious. I bought enough to feed six, for two of us.

Back at the cottage, I attempted my octopus dish with the confidence of someone who'd watched perhaps too many cooking programmes. The thing is, fresh octopus needs proper preparation, which I absolutely did not give it. We ended up chewing for what felt like hours, my partner making valiant attempts at compliments while I quietly admitted defeat and opened more wine. The tomatoes and cheese on bread, though? Perfect. Sometimes the simple things rescue you.

The local konobas became my education. There's one in Lun itself, nothing fancy, where the chap running it simply told me what I was having rather than offering a menu. Grilled sardines, potatoes with parsley, a fish broth that tasted of the sea in the best possible way. I started asking questions, probably too many, about how they prepared things. The patience of these people, honestly.

By midweek, I'd settled into a rhythm. Morning coffee on the terrace, then a wander to see what the tiny local shop had - sometimes just bread and basics, which forced creativity. Lunch became my cooking project, dinner my research mission. We found a place in Novalja doing prsut, the local cured ham, sliced so thin you could read through it. Another evening, a waterfront spot where I had scampi buzara, garlic and wine sauce everywhere, absolutely no dignity left by the end.

My market visits grew more sensible. I learned which stallholder had the best mussels, when to show up for the fresh catch. One afternoon I made a respectable brodet, the fish stew, though I say so myself. My partner photographed it like it was Michelin-starred. We ate it on the terrace as the light went pink over the bay, and I felt genuinely proud in that quiet way you don't really admit to.

The pub culture isn't what you'd find at home, obviously. It's more about these family-run places, often someone's front room with tables added. But I grew fond of a spot where they'd let me practise my terrible Croatian, always correcting gently, always pouring another glass of local white. By the end of the week, the barman would start pouring when he saw me coming.

I never did master the octopus. On our last night, I ordered it properly cooked by someone who knew what they were doing, and it was tender as anything. Some things, I reflected, are best left to professionals. But my tomato salads, my cheese boards, my eventually competent fish soups - they'd become part of the trip, part of what made the place feel briefly like mine.

We left with olive oil in the luggage, cheese wrapped carefully, and me already planning what I'd cook differently next time. The scraped bumper got mentioned one final time as we returned the car. Some memories, apparently, you never live down.