I have never been so relieved to see a sign for Capaccio in my life, and that includes the time I accidentally got on the wrong train to Naples and ended up having lunch with a man who claimed to be third cousins with Maradona. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey down from Naples airport had been straightforward enough until I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I could navigate the final stretch without GPS. "I have a good sense of direction," I told my partner, who was wedged in the passenger seat with a week's worth of groceries on her lap. "How hard can rural Campania be?" Famous last words, that. Twenty minutes later we were bouncing down a farm track, scattering chickens and what I dearly hoped were not someone's prized aubergines, while I maintained a fixed grin and insisted this was "the scenic route." The scenic route, as it happened, involved reversing past a very judgmental goat and a small nonna who watched us with the kind of silent disappointment I had previously only experienced from my own mother.

When we finally found the actual turning, I was too frazzled to appreciate the place properly. The farmhouse sat among olive groves with a view down towards the coast, all terracotta and weathered stone, and my first thought was purely about whether the kitchen would forgive my mood. It did, bless it. The kitchen was the sort that makes you want to roll up your sleeves immediately: big wooden table, slightly wonky chairs, and a gas hob that required the kind of negotiation usually reserved for diplomatic treaties. I lit it on my fourth attempt, feeling disproportionately proud, and set about making the simplest possible pasta with the tomatoes and mozzarella I had grabbed at a service station somewhere near Salerno.

The tomatoes were a revelation. I say this as someone who has spent years in British supermarkets accepting pale, firm spheres that taste of precisely nothing. These were soft, fragrant, actually red all the way through. I tore them apart with my hands like a man possessed, barely bothering with a knife, and the resulting sauce was so good that my partner stopped checking her phone and actually made a small involuntary noise. We ate on the terrace with a bottle of local Aglianico that cost less than a London pint, and I felt the last of my navigational shame dissolve into the warm evening air.

The next morning I was up early, determined to find the market I had read about in Capaccio Paese. I found it eventually, after another minor wrong turn that took me past a field of water buffalo who regarded me with complete indifference. The market was not large but it was serious: crates of courgette flowers, bunches of wild oregano, pecorino aged to various degrees of aggression. I bought too much, as always, and spent the walk back rehearsing my defence. "We can cook it all," I said, though we both knew some of those courgette flowers would end their days as a noble sacrifice in the fridge.

That evening I attempted my first proper fritto misto. The flowers were straightforward enough, though my batter was slightly thicker than ideal, but the small local anchovies I had picked up required more attention than I had anticipated. I stood at the hob in my apron, squinting at them as they sputtered in the oil, and experienced a profound respect for anyone who does this professionally. The result was edible, even good in places, though one batch went slightly too brown and I ate those myself rather than admit defeat.

We found a proper local trattoria on our third night, tucked away where I would never have stumbled upon it without the owner's recommendation. No menu in English, no pictures, just a handwritten list that changed based on what was available. I ordered badly, pointing at something I thought was rabbit and receiving a very respectable plate of tripe instead. My partner laughed for approximately six minutes. I ate it anyway, and it was actually rather wonderful, though I maintain my expression during the first bite was dignified and thoughtful rather than panicked.

By the end of the week I had settled into a comfortable rhythm of market mornings, slow lunches, and evenings attempting increasingly ambitious dishes while the Aglianico flowed and the hob continued its passive-aggressive behaviour. I made a ragu that simmered for four hours and reduced me to a state of zen-like calm. I failed at pizza dough because the oven simply did not get hot enough, a limitation I accepted with surprising grace. I ate buffalo mozzarella so fresh it barely held together, drizzled with olive oil from the grove next door, and understood finally why people write poems about this sort of thing.

On our final morning I packed the remaining pecorino with the care usually reserved for family heirlooms and stood in the kitchen for a last look around. The wonky chairs, the temperamental hob, the wooden table scarred with what I chose to believe were decades of happy cooking. I had arrived frazzled and ridiculous, chasing chickens and lying about scenic routes, and I was leaving slightly heavier, slightly more competent with courgette flowers, and genuinely sad to go. Some places teach you something without trying very hard. This one taught me that I am absolutely not ready to navigate without GPS, that tripe is better than its reputation, and that a tomato can still surprise you if you let it.