The drive down to Calabria had been long enough that I'd started naming the olive trees we passed, so by the time I pulled up to the Rende Malvitani I was already half-delirious and fully starving. The sat-nav had done its best, bless it, but I'd still managed to take a wrong turn into someone's vineyard, where an ancient nonno had waved me back with what I initially thought was friendly enthusiasm but later realised was probably alarm at my erratic reversing. I arrived at the property with a boot full of squashed tomatoes I'd bought at a roadside stall, a nervous disposition, and the distinct smell of burnt clutch.

The Rende Malvitani sat there looking impossibly composed, all whitewashed walls and terracotta pots, while I stumbled out of the car like a man emerging from a sauna. My first priority, obviously, was food. The owners had left a bottle of local red and some crusty bread in the kitchen, which I attacked with the desperation of someone who hadn't eaten a proper meal since Bologna. The bread was still warm. I nearly wept.

That first evening, I didn't venture far. There's a small trattoria about ten minutes' walk away, down past the church with the wonky bell tower, and I parked myself there like a fixture. The owner, Massimo, took one look at me and brought antipasti without asking. Grilled aubergines, 'nduja that made my eyes water in the most pleasurable way, and pecorino drizzled with local honey. I ate until my shirt felt tight and then ordered more. When I tried to ask about the wine, Massimo simply said "Calabria" with a shrug that suggested I'd asked something deeply foolish. It was excellent, of course.

The next morning, I discovered the market in Rende proper. I'd intended to buy sensible things - vegetables, perhaps some fish - but instead returned to the property with armfuls of stuff I barely recognised. There were jars of bergamot marmalade, because apparently Calabria grows most of the world's bergamots and I'd somehow never known this. There were dried chillies tied in bunches like floral arrangements. There was a wedge of caciocavallo cheese that the vendor had aged herself, hanging it in some mysterious cave somewhere. I felt simultaneously triumphant and ridiculous.

The kitchen at the Rende Malvitani is genuinely well-equipped, which is fortunate because my cooking attempts quickly became ambitious. I decided to make pasta with sardines, a classic I'd read about, despite having never cleaned a sardine in my life. The results were edible, which I consider a victory, though I did set off the smoke alarm and had to fling open every window while waving a tea towel like a surrender flag. A neighbour's cat watched this performance with evident judgement.

I found my rhythm eventually. Mornings meant coffee on the terrace, watching the hills emerge from mist with a patience I don't possess in London. Then a slow walk to buy provisions, chatting with shopkeepers whose English was as poor as my Italian, which made for gloriously confusing conversations conducted mostly through pointing and enthusiastic nodding. I'd return to cook lunch - simple things, finally, grilled vegetables and bread and cheese that needed no improvement.

The local pubs, if you can call them that, are more like community living rooms. One evening I found myself in a tiny place where old men played cards and drank amaro, and somehow I was drawn into a game despite understanding none of the rules. I lost spectacularly and bought a round that cost approximately four euros. The amaro tasted like medicine and regret, and I loved it.

By my final days, I'd established a comfortable routine of market mornings, lazy cooking afternoons, and evenings either at Massimo's or attempting something ambitious with my dwindling supplies. I never did master the sardines, but I made a respectable cipollata with those sweet Calabrian onions, and my pasta with 'nduja became genuinely good, or at least I told myself so after enough of that excellent red.

On my last night, I sat on the terrace with leftover cheese and the final bottle, watching the lights come on across the valley. I'd arrived chaotic and hungry and slightly lost, and I was leaving much the same, but with a fuller stomach and a deeper appreciation for places that don't rush anything. The Rende Malvitani had been the perfect base for this particular adventure - comfortable enough to recover from my own cooking, quiet enough to hear yourself think, and surrounded by food that made thinking feel entirely unnecessary.