I have never been so happy to see a sat nav give up on me as I was driving into Agropoli. There we were, my partner and I, crawling up a narrow lane that seemed to narrow with every bend, convinced we were heading to our holiday let. The voice kept insisting we had arrived. We had not. We had, in fact, pulled into someone's private courtyard where three cats and an extremely unimpressed nonno watched me attempt a seventeen-point turn. I waved apologetically. He waved back with what I choose to believe was amused pity.

Twenty minutes later, properly arrived and already laughing at myself, I dumped our bags and headed straight for the kitchen. The property had one of those proper Italian kitchens, tiled and serious-looking, with a hob that clearly meant business. I had plans. Grand plans. I was going to cook like a local.

My first attempt came that very evening. The local supermarket in Agropoli's centre had seduced me with its simplicity: fat tomatoes still on the vine, a hunk of parmigiano, fresh basil that actually smelled of something. I bought dried pasta, the rough kind that holds sauce properly, and felt genuinely pleased with myself. Back at the flat, I made what I can only describe as a respectable attempt at cacio e pepe. It was not cacio e pepe. It was peppery cheese pasta, and it clumped slightly, and my partner ate it with the kind of polite enthusiasm usually reserved for a child's first drawing. I ate it too. We opened a cheap local falanghina and agreed that tomorrow we would let professionals handle dinner.

The professionals, it turned out, were a ten-minute wander away in Agropoli's old town. We found a tiny trattoria tucked down a stepped alley, the sort of place with paper tablecloths and no menu in English. The owner explained the options with patient gestures. We ate spaghetti alle vongole, the clams small and sweet and still tasting of the sea, followed by grilled fish that arrived whole and staring. I am normally squeamish about fish that looks back at me, but hunger and humility are excellent teachers. We drank house wine from a carafe and finished with limoncello that the owner produced from a freezer, pouring it with theatrical slowness. It cost less than a mediocre pub meal at home.

The next morning I was up early, determined to redeem myself. Agropoli's weekly market was setting up in the piazza near the port, stalls unfolding like flowers. I bought bread from a baker who tore me off a piece to taste while it was still warm, then cheese from a woman who insisted I try three before deciding. There were artichokes the size of my fist, local olives in brine, and salsiccia that smelled of fennel and something else I could not identify. I bought too much, obviously. I always buy too much at markets. It is a character flaw I have made peace with.

That afternoon I attempted a proper ragu. I browned the sausage, I softened onions in olive oil, I let it all bubble away for three hours while we sat on the small terrace with books we barely read. The smell was extraordinary. The result was actually decent, which I put down to time and decent ingredients rather than skill. We ate it with the market bread and felt briefly like competent adults.

We found our local pub, though Italians would wince at the word. It was a birreria near the marina, serving craft beers alongside surprisingly good bar snacks. Fried zucchini flowers, crisp and delicate. Arancini that oozed proper ragu inside their golden shells. We went back three times. The barman remembered our order by the second visit, which felt like acceptance.

By our final evening, I had abandoned cooking pretensions entirely. We ate at a pizzeria where the dough was stretched in front of us, topped sparingly, then slid into a wood oven that dominated the room. My margherita had maybe four ingredients and was perfect. My partner's diavola was properly spicy, the salami curling and charring at the edges. We drank beer, then more limoncello, then walked home slightly unsteadily through streets that smelled of jasmine and someone else's better cooking.

I left Agropoli with a slightly tighter waistband and a clear understanding that my talents lie in appreciation rather than execution. The kitchen at the flat had been kind to my ego, but the markets and trattorie had been kinder to my stomach. I still think about that grilled fish sometimes, and the bread from the market, and the way the nonno waved as I finally managed to reverse out of his courtyard. Some holidays teach you things. This one taught me that good ingredients and people who know what to do with them will always beat my best intentions, and that there is absolutely no shame in being the person who buys the cheese rather than makes it.