I have never been so relieved to see a lemon tree in all my life. There it stood, just visible over the wall of our holiday let, heavy with fruit and practically glowing in the late afternoon sun. This was the moment I realised we had actually arrived in Campania, despite my best efforts to sabotage the journey.

The mishap, then. We had flown into Naples, collected our hire car, and set off with the confident air of people who had definitely not misread the ferry timetable. Capri, you see, is an island. I knew this. I had, in fact, written it down. What I had not done was connect this geographical fact to the practical reality that our accommodation was on said island, and that the last ferry from Sorrento departed at a time that could only be described as "suspiciously early for Italian standards." We arrived at the port at half past six, stared at the empty ticket office, and then at each other, with the special silence that develops between couples who have jointly made a decision this poor.

An expensive water taxi and a slightly seasick twenty minutes later, we were deposited at Marina Grande with nothing but our suitcases and a hunger so profound it felt almost spiritual.

The property itself, when we finally found it, was one of those whitewashed Campanian houses that cling to hillsides with admirable determination. A small terrace, pots of geraniums, and that lemon tree watching over everything like a benevolent citrus guardian. I immediately decided I would cook with those lemons. All of them. This ambition would prove both my salvation and my downfall over the coming days.

The first morning, I walked to the local market near the Piazzetta while my partner nursed a coffee and their ferry-related grudge. The stalls were piled with produce that seemed almost aggressively fresh: tomatoes still warm from the sun, basil that filled the entire square with its peppery sweetness, mozzarella di bufala that quivered like a nervous pudding. I bought far too much of everything, which is the only correct approach to Italian markets, and returned triumphant with a paper bag that was already leaking tomato juice through the bottom.

Our kitchen was compact but serious, with a proper gas hob and a view of the sea that made chopping onions feel almost poetic. That first lunch was simple: pasta with pomodoro, basil, and a reckless amount of garlic. The lemons watched from outside, patient. I had plans for them.

The local eating scene, we discovered, rewarded the slightly disorganised. There was a trattoria near the Arco Naturale where the owner seemed genuinely surprised when we asked for a menu, as if the concept of choosing was mildly offensive. He brought us whatever was cooking. This turned out to be rabbit braised with olives and tomatoes, followed by a lemon tart so sharp it made my eyes water. I asked about the recipe and received a shrug that contained multitudes.

I became slightly obsessed with limoncello, as one does. Not just drinking it, though there was plenty of that, but attempting to understand it. The shop near the Certosa di San Giacomo sold small bottles from local producers, each claiming ancestral methods. I conducted extensive comparative research, which is to say I sat on our terrace each evening with two glasses and strong opinions. The lemons on our tree remained unmolested, growing somehow more yellow and judgmental.

My cooking attempts escalated. I found squid at the market one morning, fresh enough that it still carried the memory of the sea. The fishmonger cleaned it for me with practiced efficiency, occasionally pausing to offer commentary on my selection that I chose to interpret as complimentary. Back at the house, I attempted a risotto nero, the squid ink version that turns everything it touches an alarming shade of black. The terrace looked like a crime scene. The risotto tasted magnificent, though I say so myself, and we ate it with our fingers stained like naughty children.

There was a bakery near the Gardens of Augustus where I went each morning for sfogliatelle, those shell-shaped pastries with ricotta filling that shatter into a thousand buttery layers. I developed a rapport with the woman behind the counter, or at least I believed I had; she may simply have been humouring the enthusiastic foreigner who pronounced everything with misplaced confidence. By day four she was selecting my pastry before I reached the front of the queue, which I took as genuine affection rather than operational efficiency.

One evening, defeated by my own ambition, we abandoned cooking entirely and found a small osteria near the Faraglioni rocks. The waiter recommended the local pezzogna, a fish I had never encountered, simply grilled with lemon and olive oil. It arrived whole, eyeing me with understandable resentment. I filleted it badly, ate it magnificently, and drank a local white wine that tasted of minerals and volcanic soil. Sometimes the best meals are the ones where you surrender completely.

My lemon tree project finally culminated on our penultimate day. I harvested six, feeling like a proper Mediterranean homesteader, and attempted a lemon pasta that I had seen demonstrated at a cooking class in Sorrento years earlier. The results were adequate, which in Italian cooking terms means I had failed somewhat. The pasta was slightly overcooked, the sauce too sharp, the balance not quite right. We ate it anyway, on the terrace, with the last of a particularly excellent limoncello and the sound of distant church bells.

I have thought about that meal since returning home. Not because it was perfect, but precisely because it was not. There is something about cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, with ingredients still warm from market stalls, that strips away any pretence. You are simply there, slightly incompetent, entirely present, making do and making something.

The ferry back to the mainland departed on time. I watched Capri shrink behind us, white buildings against blue water, and realised I had forgotten to make proper limoncello from those lemons. The tree probably appreciated the reprieve.