I have never been so grateful to see a white wall in my entire life. After a flight that felt longer than my last relationship, a ferry that pitched about like a dodgy pub stool, and a taxi driver who definitely took the scenic route to bump up the fare, I finally rocked up at Abelas Paros convinced I was still on the boat. I tried to step out of the car with what I imagined was Mediterranean elegance and promptly went over on my ankle on a loose cobble. Not a heroic sprain, mind you. Just enough to make me do a little hop-dance while clutching my tote bag full of duty-free gin. The owner, a lovely woman called Eleni, pretended not to notice. We both knew she had.

The villa itself was proper gorgeous. Whitewashed walls, blue shutters, that whole Cyclades postcard situation. But I was not thinking about aesthetics. I was thinking about food. Specifically, the fact that I had not eaten since a sad airport croissant approximately nine hours earlier. Eleni showed me round the kitchen, which was surprisingly well-equipped, and mentioned that the local supermarket in Parikia stayed open till late. I nodded like I was definitely going to cook something sensible and not just eat olives straight from the jar.

Reader, I ate the olives straight from the jar.

The next morning, still slightly wobbly from travel and possibly the duty-free gin, I decided to do the proper thing and visit the local market. Parikia's market is not one of your fancy London affairs with artisan sourdough and men with waxed moustaches selling kimchi. This was chaotic, wonderful, and absolutely reeking of fish in the best possible way. I bought tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, a hunk of feta that could have doubled as a doorstop, some honey that the stallholder assured me came from bees who only visited wild thyme. I believed him. You have to believe people about bees, I think. It is a rule.

I also bought some local wine, which the same stallholder described as "honest." I have since decided this is Greek for "will give you a headache if you are not careful." I was not careful that first evening. I attempted to make a simple Greek salad, which I have made approximately four hundred times at home. Somehow, in this beautiful kitchen with its marble countertops and view of the sea, I completely forgot how to chop an onion and ended up weeping like I was watching the end of a sad film. The salad was magnificent though. The tomatoes were so good they barely needed anything else. I sat on the terrace with my honest wine and my tear-stained salad and felt genuinely smug.

The local tavernas, I should say, are dangerously convenient. There is one about five minutes walk away that does grilled octopus I would honestly consider marrying. The first time I went, I tried to order in Greek, which I had practised from an app on the ferry. The waiter looked at me with what I now realise was profound confusion and brought me a plate of fried cheese instead. I ate it anyway. When in Rome, or rather Paros, you eat the cheese and you do not complain.

I did attempt to cook proper meals at the villa a few more times. There was a slightly disastrous attempt at moussaka that involved me realising too late that aubergines absorb roughly their own weight in olive oil. The resulting dish was less moussaka and more aubergine soup with ambition. I ate it for three days because I am stubborn and also because wasting those tomatoes felt like a crime against nature.

By the end of the week, I had settled into a rhythm. Mornings at the market, chatting with stallholders in a mix of broken Greek and enthusiastic pointing. Afternoons reading on the terrace with a bowl of cherries and some of that thyme honey drizzled over yoghurt. Evenings either at the taverna, where the waiter now greeted me like an old friend and definitely did not bring fried cheese unless I actually asked for it, or attempting something ambitious in the kitchen while the sun went down over the bay.

What I realised, standing in that kitchen with olive oil on my shirt and probably in my hair, was that I had not thought about work once. Not about emails or deadlines or any of the nonsense that usually occupies the space where thoughts should be. I was too busy worrying whether my tomatoes were ripe enough, whether I had enough oregano, whether the local bakery would still have those sesame bread rings if I left it too late.

The last night, I did not cook at all. I went to the taverna and ordered the octopus and a glass of something the waiter promised was better than honest. We sat outside as the light faded and the cats did their evening rounds between the tables, and I thought about how I would definitely be one of those people who moves to a Greek island and opens a cooking school. I would be terrible at it, obviously. But for one week, in a white villa with blue shutters, I had been absolutely convinced I could learn. That is the thing about places like this. They make you believe in your own competence, however briefly, however foolishly. I left with a jar of that honey in my suitcase and a resolution to chop onions more carefully in future.