Right, so picture this: I have just spent six hours in a hire car that smells faintly of pine air freshener and regret, navigating roundabouts designed by someone who clearly hates tourists, and I am absolutely starving. The sat-nav has given up on me twice, and I have developed a deep personal grudge against a place called Le Luc that I kept accidentally driving through. By the time I finally spot the sign for Sollies Toucas, I am ready to eat my own steering wheel.

The villa itself looks proper lovely, all creamy stone and shuttered windows, with a pool glinting in the late afternoon sun. But here is where it goes slightly wrong. I am so desperate to get inside and locate food that I completely fail to notice the step up to the front door. Cue me, one hand on my wheeled suitcase, the other reaching for the key safe, performing an accidental forward roll that lands me in a lavender bush. The neighbours, if they were watching, got a free show. I lay there for a moment, contemplating my life choices, surrounded by bees and the smell of herbs, and thought: well, this is very Provencal at least.

The kitchen, once I actually made it indoors, is one of those gorgeous country affairs with terracotta tiles and more cupboard space than my flat in Clapham. I immediately opened every door to investigate, as one does, and found a proper collection of pans, a decent knife block, and most importantly, a coffee maker that looked like it meant business. The previous guests had even left behind some herbes de Provence, which I took as a good omen, or possibly a challenge.

By now it was half seven and the local shops were shut, because France understands the importance of not working unreasonable hours. I had planned to be organised, you see. I had visions of arriving at midday, popping to a market, selecting perfect vegetables while chatting in flawless French. Instead I was rummaging through my emergency snack bag like a desperate badger, finding only a melted cereal bar and some questionable peanuts from the Eurotunnel waiting area.

The next morning I was up at an ungodly hour, partly from excitement and partly because some local rooster had decided 5am was an appropriate time for a solo performance. I drove the ten minutes to Sollies-Pont, which is your classic small Provencal town with a bakery that smells like actual heaven. I bought two baguettes still warm from the oven, a wheel of goat's cheese, some tomatoes that smelled of summer, and a bottle of local rose that the woman behind the counter assured me was "tres correct" which I have learned is high praise indeed.

Back at the villa I attempted my first proper meal, which involved me getting overexcited about the outdoor kitchen and barbecue area. I charred the sausages quite magnificently while swatting at insects and drinking the rose rather faster than intended. The goat's cheese I had simply sliced and drizzled with olive oil I found in the cupboard, which turned out to be the sort of thick green stuff that makes you understand why people write poems about fat.

The following days developed into a glorious routine of market visits and increasingly ambitious cooking attempts. There is a brilliant little producers' market in Le Luc on Wednesdays, where I bought saucisson that I kept nibbling like a string of illicit sweets, and apricots so ripe they practically turned to jam in the car. I attempted a ratatouille one evening, chopping aubergines and courgettes while swearing quietly and drinking more wine than the recipe strictly required. It took two hours and looked nothing like the film, but eaten outside with the crickets going and the pool lights on, it tasted like the best thing I have ever made.

The local restaurants became my fallback for when I ruined things, which happened more than I care to admit. There is a brilliant place in Sollies-Pont doing proper Provencal cooking, the sort where the menu changes based on what the chef's cousin brought in that morning. I had a daube de boeuf there one night, slow-cooked beef that fell apart at the sight of a fork, with olives that had clearly been lurking in oil since about 1987 in the best possible way.

By the end of the week I had gained what I can only describe as a significant cheese weight, developed a minor addiction to pastis as an aperitif, and genuinely considered smuggling home a jar of tapenade in my hand luggage. The villa kitchen had seen triumphs and disasters, sometimes simultaneously. That lavender bush never quite recovered from my arrival, but I like to think we understood each other by the end.