I have never been more grateful for a sat nav in my life, nor more inclined to throw one out of a moving vehicle. The journey from Naples Airport to Giffoni Valle Piana had been going swimmingly until I decided I knew better than the robot lady and took what I insisted was a scenic shortcut through the hills. Two hours, one very narrow bridge negotiation with a goat, and a small weep in a lay-by later, I arrived at the villa with a boot full of lemons from a roadside stall I had not technically intended to visit. The owner, a splendid chap called Enzo, watched me unpack them with the expression of a man who had seen this before.

The villa itself was everything the pictures promised and I had not believed. Terracotta floors that stayed deliciously cool underfoot, a kitchen that actually had more than one blunt knife and a tin opener, and a terrace that looked out over olive groves towards the mountains. I stood there with my carrier bags of accidental lemons and felt, for the first time since the goat incident, that I might actually be on holiday.

Enzo had left a bottle of local Greco di Tufo and some taralli in a bowl, which I demolished while investigating the kitchen proper. Proper hob, decent-sized fridge, and a barbecue outside that looked like it had seen some action. I was already planning my first evening when I discovered the wood-fired pizza oven round the side. Reader, I nearly wept again, this time from joy rather than navigational trauma.

The next morning I walked into Giffoni Valle Piana proper, which took about twenty minutes down a lane that smelled of jasmine and someone's laundry. The town is not one of those places that rolls out the red carpet for tourists, which suited me perfectly. I found a bar for coffee and a cornetto, stood at the counter like a local, and immediately betrayed myself by asking for a cappuccino after eleven. The barman's eyebrow twitched but he served it without comment, which I chose to interpret as mercy rather than contempt.

The market was on Thursday, apparently, which I had missed by a day. Undeterred, I found a small alimentari where a woman called Rosa sold me pecorino, local salami, and some tomatoes that smelled like tomatoes actually used to. She also gave me a lecture on my lemons, which were apparently Amalfi variety and completely unsuitable for the seafood pasta I had planned. I bought more lemons, proper ones, and left with my pride in tatters and my bag considerably heavier.

That evening I attempted the pizza oven. I say attempted because there is a significant difference between watching someone manage a wood fire and doing it yourself. The first pizza emerged somewhere between charcoal and archaeological artefact. The second was edible if you closed your eyes. By the third I had achieved something I would serve to a hungry friend without apology, topped with Rosa's tomatoes, mozzarella from the caseificio down the road, and basil I had nicked from a pot on the terrace. I ate it with the remaining Greco di Tufo and the profound satisfaction of someone who had nearly set fire to their own eyebrows but emerged with dinner.

The local pub scene, such as it is, revolves around bars that do aperitivo rather than proper boozers. I found one in the next village that did excellent Aperol spritzes and came with complimentary crisps and olives, which I consider a fair exchange. The regulars were mostly older chaps playing cards, who tolerated my presence with the resigned patience of people who have seen worse. I tried to join in a conversation about football and quickly established that I knew nothing about Napoli's current form, which they found more amusing than offensive.

By day four I had settled into a rhythm. Morning coffee at the bar, where I now knew better than to order milk after eleven. A wander to buy whatever looked good, which was everything. Afternoon cooking experiments that ranged from competent cacio e pepe to a disastrous attempt at sfogliatelle that I will never speak of again. Evenings on the terrace with wine and the sound of cicadas, occasionally interrupted by Enzo appearing with more lemons or some figs from his tree.

I left Giffoni Valle Piana with a recipe book's worth of notes, a newfound respect for wood-fired ovens, and approximately fifteen kilograms of local produce in my luggage that customs definitely saw and definitely chose to ignore. The sat nav got me back to Naples without incident, though I suspect that was luck rather than technology. Some places teach you about history or culture or yourself. This one taught me that I am capable of feeding myself adequately with enough local cheese and a patient attitude toward failure, which feels like enough for one holiday.