I have never been so relieved to see a sign for Montauro in my life, and that includes the time I got lost in IKEA trying to find the exit. The drive from Lamezia Terme airport had been gorgeous, all sweeping coastal views and mountains that looked like they had been painted by someone showing off, but my hire car's sat nav had developed what I can only describe as a personality disorder. It kept insisting I take roads that appeared to be goat tracks, then scolding me for ignoring its instructions. By the time I spotted the village clinging to its hillside, I had argued with a machine for ninety minutes and lost every round.

The mishap came right at the end, naturally. I turned into what I thought was the lane to the property, a charming narrow strip between stone walls, and promptly wedged my Fiat against a parked scooter with all the grace of a shopping trolley in a canal. The scooter's owner, a tiny woman in her seventies wearing what I can only describe as house slippers and an expression of profound disappointment, emerged from a doorway and explained through gestures and some creative pointing that I was in her vegetable garden's access path. Not the holiday home entrance. Not even close. I reversed out with the scooter watching me like a disappointed headteacher, and found the actual driveway forty metres further on, marked by a proper sign and everything. I chose to blame jet lag and the sat nav's ongoing psychological warfare.

The Montauro itself was worth every mortifying second. Perched on the edge of the village with terraces stepping down the hillside, it had that wonderful shabby-elegance you only find in Italian holiday homes, where nothing quite matches but everything belongs. Terracotta tiles, whitewashed walls, wooden shutters that squeaked satisfyingly, and a kitchen that immediately announced itself as the heart of the place. I dumped my bags and headed straight for the terrace with a beer from the fridge, because priorities, and watched the light change over the mountains while pretending I had not just committed vehicular embarrassment against a pensioner's transport.

That first evening, I walked into Montauro village proper, which took roughly four minutes. The place is tiny, a proper hilltop settlement where you nod to the same people twice because you have already looped back round. I found a bar that sold cold Peroni and little bowls of spicy olives, and I sat there feeling absurdly pleased with myself until I realised I had not eaten since a sad sandwich at Gatwick. The barman, who introduced himself as Marco with the confidence of someone who had never once wedged a car in a vegetable path, directed me to a trattoria round the corner where I ate pasta with 'nduja that made my eyes water and my heart sing. The sausage is a Calabrian speciality, soft and ferociously spiced, and I spent the entire meal alternating between bliss and wondering if I had damaged my oesophagus permanently.

The next morning, I attempted to cook breakfast in the Montauro's kitchen and discovered that Italian coffee makers are not intuitive devices. I produced something that tasted of burnt metal and disappointment, then walked down to the village bar where actual professionals handled my caffeine needs with the efficiency of people who had never confused a vegetable path with a driveway. I bought bread from a shop that smelled of yeast and patience, cheese that was still sweating from being made, and tomatoes that actually tasted of something, which as a Brit I find both thrilling and slightly accusatory.

The local market in Soverato, a short drive down the winding road to the coast, became my obsession. I went three times in a week, which even I recognised as excessive, but there is something hypnotic about watching fish so fresh they are practically still negotiating, about stalls of chillies strung up like red garlands, about vendors who press samples of pecorino into your hand with the urgency of people sharing state secrets. I bought too much of everything, as is the holiday tradition, and spent happy evenings in the Montauro kitchen attempting to recreate dishes I had eaten in restaurants, with results that varied from surprisingly decent to crimes against Italian cuisine that I will take to my grave.

One afternoon, I tried to make my own 'nduja pasta and created something so aggressively spicy that I ate it with tears streaming down my face, not from emotion but from survival. I photographed it for posterity, or perhaps as evidence, and ate the entire portion out of stubbornness. The Montauro's terrace witnessed this performance in silence, the mountains indifferent to my suffering.

The village bars became my evening ritual. There are only a handful, but they operate with that wonderful Italian generosity where one drink becomes three hours and several complimentary snacks. I never learned to order with confidence, always pointing and hoping, and was rewarded with fried aubergine, little pizzas, once something involving anchovies that I ate out of politeness and then genuinely enjoyed. The locals tolerated my attempts at Italian with the patience of people who have heard worse, which I found both comforting and slightly worrying.

By the end of the week, my kitchen attempts had improved marginally, my waistline had not, and I had developed genuine affection for a village I could walk across in under ten minutes. The Montauro had become familiar, its squeaky shutters and uneven floors part of the rhythm of days spent eating too well and moving too little. I left the scooter owner's vegetable path strictly alone on my final departure, which I consider genuine personal growth, and drove away already planning what I would cook on my inevitable return.