I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to get my hire car stuck in a olive grove three minutes from Skaloma Nafpaktos. The satnav had cheerfully announced we had arrived, and in my enthusiasm to see the stone villa with its terracotta roof, I had followed what was clearly a farmer's track rather than the actual drive. There I was, wheels spinning among centuries-old olive trees, while a local chap on a scooter watched with the amused patience of someone who has seen this many times before. He didn't speak a word of English, but his gestures managed to convey both sympathy and mild disbelief at my driving. Ten minutes of sheepish reversing later, I finally found the proper entrance.

The villa itself was worth every mortifying second. Perched on the hillside with views across the Gulf of Corinth, it had that wonderful lived-in feel that rental properties often lack. The kitchen, I immediately noticed, was properly equipped, not the usual holiday-home token effort with one blunt knife and a saucepan from 1973. This was going to matter, because I had grand plans about cooking my way through the week like some budget Rick Stein.

My first morning, I drove the short distance into Nafpaktos town to find the local market. I had read about it in a guidebook that used words like "vibrant" and "authentic," which usually makes me suspicious, but this time the cliche was spot on. The fish stall alone had me transfixed, silver bodies gleaming on crushed ice, the vendor shouting prices and occasionally breaking into song. I bought a kilo of sardines for what seemed like pocket change, plus some tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, which feels increasingly miraculous back home. A wizened woman selling wild greens thrust a bunch of something unidentifiable into my hands, said "horta" very firmly, and named a price that suggested argument would be futile.

That evening I attempted my first proper Greek meal. The sardines I simply grilled with olive oil and lemon, which even I couldn't ruin. The horta I boiled and dressed with more olive oil, having looked up preparation on my phone with slightly shameful reliance on technology. It was bitter, properly so, and I felt absurdly proud of myself. I ate on the villa's terrace with a glass of retsina that I had bought purely because the bottle looked traditional, and discovered to my surprise that I actually rather liked its piney strangeness. The local cats gathered hopefully, and I may have shared more fish than I strictly intended.

By day three I had established something of a routine. Mornings for the market or the small supermarket in the nearby village, where the cheese selection alone could occupy twenty minutes of deliberation. I became slightly obsessed with finding the perfect feta, conducting taste tests with the seriousness of a wine critic. The baker became familiar with my attempts at Greek pleasantries, responding with encouraging patience to my mangled "kalimera." His spinach pies, warm from the oven at half past seven, became my breakfast staple, eaten in the car park like a furtive treat before proper shopping.

The tavernas of Nafpaktos harbour I approached with some trepidation, having been burned before by tourist-trap Greek food. But the place recommended by the villa's guest book, a family operation with plastic chairs and no menu in English, served me grilled octopus that changed my understanding of what octopus could be. Tender, charred, dressed simply with oil and vinegar. I ate there three times in seven days, working through their offerings with the dedication of someone on a poorly-funded research grant. The wine came in metal jugs, the bill was always suspiciously modest, and the proprietor's mother would emerge periodically to check I was eating enough, a concern I found genuinely touching.

My most ambitious cooking attempt came on the fifth day, when I decided to recreate a stifado I had eaten at a mountain village taverna. The recipe seemed straightforward enough, but I had underestimated the potency of Greek cinnamon and possibly overestimated my own patience. The result was edible, technically, but had a sweetness that made it taste faintly of dessert. I ate it anyway, over several evenings, with increasing amounts of yoghurt to balance the damage. Some failures simply must be owned.

The local ouzo I saved for my final evening, having been warned about its effects by a fellow tourist at the bakery. I drank it properly, with ice and water, alongside leftover cheese and tomatoes and the last of my market olives. The sunset turned the gulf pink and gold, and I felt that particular melancholy of holidays ending, mixed with genuine satisfaction. I had shopped like a local, cooked with variable success, eaten memorably, and learned that horta is not to be feared. The cats, at least, would miss me.