I have never been so happy to see a set of traffic lights as I was when we finally crawled into Cattolica. Seven hours from Bologna airport, thanks to a sat-nav that decided "scenic route" meant every single back road through the Apennines. My partner Dave was driving, white-knuckled and muttering, while I clutched a rapidly disintegrating map and pretended I knew exactly where we'd gone wrong. Spoiler: I did not. The mishap came at a toll booth somewhere near Rimini, where I confidently pressed the button for the ticket, then watched in horror as it fluttered down the wrong side of the machine, out of reach, into what I can only describe as a mechanical abyss. The queue behind us grew. Dave made a small whimpering noise. An attendant eventually wandered over, looked at us with the weary patience of someone who has seen many British tourists lose their tickets to the machine, and waved us through with a gesture that managed to be both kind and deeply judgemental.

But then. Then we turned onto the coastal road, and there it was. Our holiday home, tucked into a quiet residential corner of Cattolica, a short stroll from the beach. The key was in the lockbox as promised, and we practically fell through the door, hungry and slightly hysterical. First impressions? The kitchen. I made a beeline for it before even looking at the bedrooms, because seven hours of Italian roads with only a service station panini to sustain you does something to a person. It was compact but properly equipped, with a decent hob, a fridge that actually worked, and - joy of joys - a small balcony where I immediately envisioned myself drinking wine and feeling very continental.

We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person would do: found the nearest supermarket. Conad, just round the corner, became my temple for the week. That first evening, I wandered the aisles in a state of overwhelmed bliss. Fresh pasta in shapes I'd never seen. Tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes. Parmesan sold in wedges the size of small bricks. I filled a basket with reckless abandon, including a bottle of Sangiovese that cost less than a London coffee, and some local olive oil in a tin that I decided was absolutely essential despite having no luggage space for the return journey.

Back at the flat, I attempted my first self-catering triumph: spaghetti alle vongole. The clams from the fish counter were still practically twitching. I had no idea what I was doing. Dave hovered nervously as I flung garlic, chilli and white wine into a pan with the confidence of someone who had watched approximately one cooking video three years ago. The result was, honestly, not bad. The clams were tender, the sauce was briny and rich, and we ate on that little balcony as the sun went down, feeling terribly pleased with ourselves. The wine helped. The wine always helps.

The next morning revealed my hubris. I attempted piadina, the flatbread Emilia-Romagna is famous for, using a recipe I'd found on my phone and a frying pan that was slightly too small. The first one burned. The second one was raw in the middle. The third was acceptable if you folded it aggressively enough to hide the evidence. Dave ate all three with the diplomatic silence of a man who knows his partner's ego is fragile before noon. We took the survivors to the beach, along with some squacquerone cheese and prosciutto crudo from the market in Cattolica's old town, and ate them with sandy fingers while watching children build elaborate fortifications against the tide.

That market became my daily pilgrimage. Every morning I'd wander down, ostensibly for fresh bread, inevitably returning with armfuls of things I hadn't planned: peaches so ripe they bruised if you looked at them wrong, tiny courgettes with their flowers still attached, a wheel of aged pecorino that the vendor insisted I try three times before buying. I am deeply susceptible to Italian food vendors. They know this. They can smell it on me, along with the desperation of someone whose home cooking repertoire normally extends to stir-fry and toast.

One afternoon, slightly sun-drunk and overconfident, I decided to tackle fresh pasta. The kitchen had a rolling pin. How hard could tagliatelle be? Very hard, it turns out. My attempt resembled rustic, edible shoelaces, uneven and slightly chewy where I'd failed to roll the dough thin enough. I served them with a simple butter and sage sauce, because by that point I'd learned my lesson about overcomplicating things. Dave said they were "characterful," which I have decided to take as a compliment. We ate them on the balcony again, because that was our ritual now, watching the evening passeggiata below, locals strolling in that unhurried way that makes you feel like you're doing life wrong back home.

The holiday home had a small herb garden on the landing, which I pilfered from with increasing boldness as the week went on. Rosemary for roasted potatoes. Basil that I tore into rough pieces for caprese salads that we ate at room temperature because the fridge was full of wine and there were priorities. A neighbour eventually caught me snipping at the oregano and simply nodded, as if this was expected behaviour from the British tenant in 3B. I like to think we had a moment of mutual understanding, though possibly she was just planning which herbs to move out of reach.

By the end of the week, my cooking had improved marginally, or perhaps my standards had simply adjusted. We ate grilled sardines from the market, simply prepared with lemon and that excellent olive oil. We made endless variations on tomato salad, because when tomatoes taste like that, why would you do anything else? One evening, defeated by our own ambition, we simply assembled a platter of cheeses and meats and called it dinner, eating in our pants because the balcony had finally defeated us with its heat. It was, in its way, perfect.

On our last morning, I stood in that small kitchen and realised I'd used every pan, every utensil, every surface. The fridge contained nothing but a jar of olives and some questionable leftover ragu. I had olive oil stains on three shirts and a new appreciation for why Italians eat lunch at two in the afternoon and dinner at nine: you need that long to recover from the pleasure of it all, to build your appetite back up, to live in a rhythm that revolves around food rather than fitting it in between other concerns.

We left the key in the lockbox, slightly heavier than when we'd arrived, and drove back to Bologna without losing a single toll ticket. I consider this my greatest achievement of the entire holiday.