I should have known the holiday was off to a classic start when I confidently strode up to what I thought was our hire car in Naples airport, chucked my suitcase in the boot, and nearly drove off with a very confused German couple's luggage. Turns out silver Fiat Pandas all look identical when you've been up since four in the morning. The actual owner tapping on my window was, in hindsight, a fairly big clue.

The drive down to Stella Cilento took about two hours, winding through hills that grew greener and more absurdly beautiful with every mile. By the time I reached the property, perched among olive groves with a view that made me actually say "blimey" out loud, I was ready to collapse. But first impressions of the villa itself stopped me in my tracks. Terracotta floors, wooden beams, and a kitchen that looked like it meant business. I opened the fridge to find it empty and pristine, which felt both exciting and slightly threatening.

The local market in Vallo della Lucania, just ten minutes away, became my morning ritual. I'd roll up still half-asleep, clutching a list I'd written in increasingly desperate handwriting, and proceed to buy roughly triple what I needed. The first day I came back with three kilos of tomatoes, two whole swordfish steaks I definitely couldn't afford, and some chillies that later made me cry actual tears into my arrabbiata. The butcher found my attempts at Italian endearing, or possibly pitiful, and took to selecting my meat himself while I nodded along like I understood his rapid-fire explanations.

Cooking in that villa kitchen became an event each evening. I'd fling open the shutters, put on some music that felt appropriately Italian, and attempt dishes I'd only ever watched on telly. The wood-fired oven outside was my nemesis and greatest love. My first pizza emerged charred on one side and practically raw on the other, which I ate standing up in the garden at half past nine, swigging local Aglianico wine and feeling deeply pleased with myself anyway. By day four I'd mastered the turning technique, or at least stopped setting off the smoke alarm.

The village pub, if you can call it that, was a tiny enoteca run by a man called Giuseppe who seemed to remember everyone's business from 1973 onwards. No proper food, just excellent wine and the occasional bowl of taralli he'd push across the counter. I spent one memorable evening there attempting to explain Brexit to a table of pensioners who kept refilling my glass and looking sorrowful. We ended up toasting to "confusione universale" and I stumbled home via a wrong turn through someone's vineyard.

My most honest moment came attempting to recreate my grandmother's ragu using local Cilento beef. Three hours of slow cooking, the whole villa smelling like heaven itself, and I realised I'd completely forgotten to add the garlic. Sat there at midnight, eating it anyway with crusty bread and too much cheese, I decided some mistakes you just have to own. It was still gorgeous, in a subtle, less aggressive sort of way.

The fish market in Pisciotta became my weekend treat, where I'd watch old men argue about the morning's catch and inevitably get talked into buying something I'd never prepared. Octopus remains a mystery I am not qualified to solve. I'd retreat to the villa, look up seventeen contradictory recipes on my phone, and usually end up simply grilling whatever it was with lemon and olive oil. The local oil, by the way, is absurdly good. I brought back six bottles and am already rationing them like some kind of doomsday prepper.

Breakfasts became my favourite meal purely for the simplicity. Fresh ricotta from the caseificio down the road, figs from the garden when they were ready, that thick Italian coffee I never quite managed to make properly without it tasting slightly burnt. I'd eat outside watching the morning mist clear from the hills, planning elaborate lunches I'd never actually cook because I'd got too absorbed in a book.

My final evening, I attempted a proper feast. Homemade pasta, which I'd practiced until my arms ached, with a sauce of those market tomatoes I'd finally learned to buy in sensible quantities. Local mozzarella so fresh it practically pulsed. Wine from a vineyard I'd visited where the owner spoke no English and I no proper Italian, yet we'd communicated perfectly through enthusiastic gesturing and shared sips. I sat on the terrace as the light faded, slightly drunk, definitely overfed, and genuinely emotional about leaving.

The German couple's luggage, by the way, made it back to them eventually. Airport security found the whole thing far less amusing than I did.