I have never been so relieved to see a ferry toilet in my entire life. There we were, my partner and I, bobbing across the Saronic Gulf on the hydrofoil from Piraeus, when I realised with mounting horror that I had packed our entire stash of emergency snacks into the hold luggage. The growl from my stomach could probably be heard in Poros. By the time we docked at Aegina, I would have happily eaten the decorative netting off a taverna wall.

The walk from the port to our holiday home in Perdika was mercifully short, though I spent most of it staring longingly at bakeries we passed, mentally cataloguing every honey-drenched loukoumades I intended to consume. Our host met us with a warm smile and a bowl of fresh figs from her garden, which I ate with the restraint of a woman who had not just spent forty-five minutes contemplating ferry upholstery as a food group.

The kitchen in the property was compact but thoughtfully equipped, and I immediately fell in love with the little terrace overlooking the fishing harbour. That first evening, we did what any sensible person would do after a travel ordeal: we walked approximately ninety seconds to the nearest taverna and ordered everything. Grilled octopus, fava bean puree drizzled with local olive oil, tomatoes that actually tasted of something other than refrigerated disappointment. The house wine came in a chipped carafe and tasted like sunshine and poor decision-making. I was in heaven.

The next morning, I woke with ambitions. The Perdika fish market operates down by the harbour, and I had decided we would cook a proper Greek meal. I marched down with my string bag and the confidence of someone who had watched approximately three cooking programmes. The fisherman I approached spoke approximately no English and I speak approximately no Greek beyond "efharisto" and "ouzo," which is not a robust vocabulary for negotiation. Through a combination of pointing, smiling, and what I now realise was wildly inappropriate hand gesturing, I acquired two sea bream and something I thought was squid but was later identified by my partner as "definitely not squid, possibly a relative of the squid, let's just fry it and see."

Back at the house, I attempted to clean my purchases with the enthusiasm of a person who has never actually cleaned a whole fish. There was a moment, dear reader, when I genuinely considered whether one of the local cats might accept a commission. The terrace became my operating theatre. Olive oil went everywhere. I discovered that Greek oregano is significantly more potent than the dusty jar at the back of my cupboard in Crouch End. The resulting meal was, by any objective standard, slightly overcooked and heavily seasoned. We ate it as the sun went down, accompanied by bread from the bakery near the church and a salad of cucumbers and feta that required no culinary intervention from me whatsoever. It was genuinely one of the best meals I have ever had, though I suspect the setting and the wine and the sheer relief of not poisoning ourselves contributed significantly to this assessment.

The following days settled into a rhythm I could happily maintain indefinitely. Morning coffee on the terrace, watching the fishing boats return. A wander to the small shops for yoghurt and honey, perhaps some local pistachios for which Aegina is apparently famous, though I confess I mainly bought them because the vendor gave me a free sample and I am constitutionally incapable of refusing free food. Lunch became a moveable feast of meze picked up from various harbour-side establishments: taramasalata, dolmades, little fried courgette balls that I attempted to recreate later with results that can only be described as "educational."

I became a regular at a particular taverna where the owner started bringing me dishes he insisted I try, none of which I could name but all of which I accepted with the grateful enthusiasm of a Labrador. One evening he produced a fish soup that had clearly been simmering since approximately the previous Tuesday, deep and restorative and entirely unlike anything I could attempt in our little kitchen. I asked about the recipe and he laughed for a solid minute, then patted my hand in what I choose to interpret as affectionate encouragement rather than pity.

By the end of the week, my cooking attempts had improved marginally, though I had also accepted that some experiences are best left to professionals with better equipment and generations of accumulated knowledge. Our final night, we returned to that first taverna and I ordered the grilled octopus again, paying proper attention this time, trying to identify the herbs, the char, the balance of lemon and oil. The owner caught me staring intently at my plate and raised his glass to me across the room. I raised mine back, caught somewhere between genuine appreciation and the certain knowledge that I would never replicate this at home, not with all the figs and string bags in Greece.

We left Perdika early the next morning, catching the first ferry, and I spent the crossing eating a spinach pie I had bought from the bakery near the church, which had just opened, the owner waving me off with a paper bag still warm from the oven. I did not contemplate the ferry upholstery once.