Getting to San Marco Argentano was meant to be straightforward. Fly to Lamezia Terme, hire a car, follow the sat nav, arrive in time for aperitivo. Simple. Except I somehow managed to programme the wrong San Marco into the thing and spent forty-five minutes winding through increasingly narrow lanes, wondering why my "country villa" appeared to be a petrol station forecourt outside Cosenza. The bloke at the till found it hilarious. I less so, particularly as I'd been boasting to my girlfriend about my "excellent sense of direction" not two hours earlier.

We eventually found the proper place as the afternoon sun was turning everything that lovely burnt-orange colour. The villa sat among olive groves with a view down toward the valley, and I immediately forgave myself everything. My girlfriend took rather longer.

The kitchen, we discovered, was properly equipped. Not the usual holiday-home token effort with one blunt knife and a pan with a wobbly handle, but actual decent kit. This mattered enormously because we'd resolved to cook our way through the week rather than eat out every night. Calabrian food, we'd heard, was sensational and we intended to do it justice.

Our first morning, we drove the ten minutes into San Marco Argentano proper. The town climbs up a hillside in that satisfyingly chaotic Italian fashion, all narrow streets and sudden views. We found the weekly market by following our noses, literally, to a stall frying fresh caciocavallo cheese. The vendor, a woman with hands like shovels and the kindest face, insisted we try before buying. We bought rather more than planned, plus proper nduja, those wonderful fat Calabrian sausages, sun-dried tomatoes that actually tasted of something, and a bottle of local olive oil the colour of meadow grass.

That evening I attempted my first pasta with nduja. The oil from the sausage turned everything violent orange, and I may have been over-generous with the chilli. My girlfriend's eyes watered. She claimed it was delicious. I suspect loyalty rather than honesty. We ate it on the terrace with bread from the morning market and that caciocavallo, now slightly less fresh but no less wonderful, and a bottle of Ciro that cost less than a London pint.

The local pubs, we discovered, were less "pub" in the British sense and more community gathering spots where wine flowed and someone inevitably produced food. Our favourite was a tiny place in the old town where the owner, Marco, seemed to operate on the principle that no customer should leave sober or hungry. His wife made these extraordinary aubergine polpette, little fried balls of aubergine and cheese that I attempted to recreate disastrously the following evening. I hadn't squeezed the aubergine properly. They disintegrated into oily mush. We ate bread and cheese on the terrace instead, laughing at my culinary hubris.

By midweek I'd established a reasonable routine. Morning market for whatever looked good, afternoon attempting something ambitious, evening either success or cheerful failure with wine. I made proper pasta alla Norma one night that actually worked, the aubergine silky and the ricotta salata crumbled over the top. We photographed it like proud parents. Another night I tried something with swordfish, since the coast wasn't far and the fish was absurdly fresh, but I overcooked it to leather. The cat that had adopted our terrace ate well that evening.

The local bakery became essential. I'd trot down each morning for fresh bomboloni, those custard-filled doughnuts, and proper crusty bread. By day four the woman behind the counter was greeting me like a regular, which pleased me more than it probably should. There's something deeply satisfying about being recognised in a foreign place, even if it's just for your predictable sweet tooth.

Our final evening, Marco produced something special at his place, a stew of goat that had been cooking since morning. We ate it with rough local wine and felt genuinely mournful about leaving. I'd learned that Calabrian cooking isn't complicated, but it demands respect for ingredients and patience I don't naturally possess. Also that nduja requires careful handling unless you enjoy watching your dining partner suffer.

We packed olive oil, dried chillies, and rather more caciocavallo than customs might strictly approve. The drive back to the airport was uneventful, which felt like a small victory. My girlfriend programmed the sat nav.