I have never been so relieved to see a set of traffic lights as I was when we finally rolled into the ferry queue for Pag Island. Three and a half hours from Rijeka Airport, two wrong turns round Opatija's one-way system, and one spectacular argument about whether the sat nav was "having a laugh" or simply broken. Turns out I'd been holding the phone upside down for twenty minutes. My partner did not find this as funny as I did, though she did laugh later when I tripped over the threshold of our Pag Lun holiday home and face-planted onto the most beautiful stone floor I have ever had the privilege to bruise myself upon.

The place itself was proper lovely. Terracotta tiles, wooden beams, that rustic Croatian charm that makes you immediately want to open a bottle and forget your dignity. But dignity was already in short supply, because I had promised to cook us a "proper local feast" our first night. The small supermarket in Lun had other ideas. I stood in front of a shelf of unfamiliar cured meats looking like a man who had never successfully operated a kitchen in his life. Which, to be fair, I mostly haven't.

We did find a decent konoba down the road, family-run, grandmother glaring at us from behind the bar like we might steal the cutlery. I ordered the octopus salad because it felt adventurous. It was sensational. Tender, lemony, the sort of thing that makes you angry at every bad meal you've ever accepted. My partner had the brodet, this rich fish stew with polenta, and I spent the rest of the evening making noises that would have been embarrassing in any other context.

Next morning I was determined to redeem myself at the tiny market in Novalja, about twenty minutes south. Bought tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, which I realise now is a sensation I had completely forgotten existed. Some local cheese called paski sir, made from sheep's milk, sharp and crumbly and absolutely nothing like the cheddar I default to at home. Fresh sardines, still shiny, still judging me with their little fish eyes. I was going to grill them. I had seen someone do this on television once. How hard could it be?

Very hard, apparently. Very hard indeed. Our holiday home had a proper outdoor grill, which I loaded with far too much charcoal and then doused with far too much lighter fluid. The resulting fireball was visible from neighbouring terraces, I am fairly certain. The sardines went from raw to cremated in approximately ninety seconds. I served them anyway, because pride, and we ate them with the good tomatoes and cheese and a lot of very cold white wine from the local shop. My partner was kind about it. She is kind about most things, which is why she is still with a man who cannot read a sat nav or operate basic fire.

The local eating scene proper saved us from my culinary ambitions. There was a brilliant little place in Lun itself, nothing fancy, plastic chairs and paper tablecloths, doing grilled fish so simple and perfect it made my attempts feel almost offensive. We went twice. The second time the waiter recognised us and brought rakija without being asked, which felt like either acceptance or pity, possibly both.

I did manage one successful meal at the house eventually. Breakfast, mostly. Bread from the bakery, that sheep's cheese, cherries from a roadside stall, strong coffee on the terrace watching the morning light on the water. Simple things, done by people who know what they are doing, assembled by me with minimal opportunity for disaster.

By our final evening I had accepted my limitations. We walked to that konoba again, sat outside, ate prawns grilled with garlic and drank more of that local wine than was strictly sensible. I did not attempt to cook anything. Sometimes the best thing you can do on holiday is recognise what you are good at, which in my case is apparently finding excellent places where other people can feed me properly, and paying them gratefully for the privilege.