I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to get my hire car stuck in a narrow lane barely five minutes from the property. There I was, wedged between two ancient stone walls in the middle of nowhere, Basilicata, frantically reversing while a local farmer leaned on his gate and watched with what I can only describe as deeply amused patience. He didn't even need to say anything. His eyebrows did all the work.

Eventually freed, I crawled the final stretch to the Metaponto feeling rather less sophisticated than I'd hoped. But then I turned onto the track and saw it: a low, whitewashed villa with a terrace that seemed to melt into the surrounding olive groves. The Ionian Sea glimmered in the distance. The farmer's eyebrows were forgiven.

The first thing I did, naturally, was investigate the kitchen. Anyone who says they don't judge a holiday rental by its cooking facilities is lying. This one passed with flying colours: proper gas hob, decent knives, and a fridge that actually got cold. I made a mental note to test it thoroughly.

That evening I walked the ten minutes to Metaponto Lido, the little coastal strip nearby, and found myself a beachside bar doing simple grilled fish and cold beer. The fish was whole, head-on, and staring at me with what felt like personal accusation. I ate it anyway, pulling tender flesh from the cheeks and wondering why we ever bother filleting things in Britain. The beer was local, unremarkable, and absolutely perfect with the salt air.

The next morning I drove to the market at Bernalda, which apparently happens on Saturdays and which I had entirely the wrong day for. I found a smaller Tuesday version instead, three stalls and a van selling vegetables that looked like they'd been pulled from the earth that morning. I bought tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, which sounds obvious but isn't if you shop in British supermarkets. I also bought some local caciocavallo cheese because the vendor insisted, and I find it hard to argue with Italian cheese vendors. They have a certain authority.

Back at the villa I attempted a simple pasta with the tomatoes, garlic, and basil I'd found. The kitchen had a proper heavy-bottomed pan, which helped, but I still managed to burn the garlic because I was drinking a glass of local Aglianico and got distracted by the view from the terrace. The second attempt went better. The third, made after another trip to a different vendor who sold me better olive oil, was genuinely good. I ate it outside as the sun went down, feeling disproportionately pleased with myself.

I found my local, such as it was, on the third day. A tiny place near the archaeological site of Metaponto, the ancient Greek ruins practically next door to the villa. The bar did coffee in the mornings and simple drinks in the evening, and the owner seemed faintly surprised to see me return. By the fourth visit he greeted me with a nod that felt like acceptance. They did panini at lunch, nothing fancy, just proper bread with proper fillings. I had one with mortadella and a local cheese I couldn't pronounce, eaten at a plastic table while watching an old man slowly and methodically eat his way through an entire plate of olives.

The beach bars became my evening routine. Different ones, all much of a muchness, all doing grilled fish and cold drinks and not much else. I never quite learned to order confidently, always pointing and hoping, always receiving something acceptable and usually delicious. One place did a seafood risotto that was frankly too large for one person but which I finished through sheer determination and mild embarrassment.

I attempted to recreate it back at the villa, using arborio rice I'd found at a small supermarket in Metaponto town. It was edible. It was not risotto. Some things are best left to professionals with better seafood supply chains.

On my final morning I made one last trip to the Tuesday market, bought more tomatoes than I could reasonably transport home, and ate them simply sliced with salt and the last of the olive oil on the terrace. The farmer who'd watched me reverse into his wall drove past on his tractor and raised a hand. I raised my coffee cup in return. Neither of us mentioned the incident.

I left with a jar of local honey, a vague recipe for tomato sauce scrawled on a receipt, and the certain knowledge that I would never make risotto properly but would absolutely keep trying.