I have never been so relieved to see a fridge in my entire life. After a six-hour drive from Bologna airport, during which I managed to take a wrong turn somewhere near Rimini and end up in what I can only describe as an industrial estate full of forklift enthusiasts, I finally rolled up to our holiday let in Cattolica with one thought and one thought only: I need a sit down and something to eat before I do something regrettable.

The property itself was spot on. A proper little flat with a balcony that looked out towards the sea, though admittedly my first impression was less "ah, la dolce vita" and more "where did I put the kettle?" I had made the rookie error of assuming I could navigate Italian roads with the same confidence I navigate the M25. I cannot. My partner, who had wisely slept through most of my wrong-turning, emerged from the car stretching like a cat and immediately asked what was for dinner. Reader, I had not planned this far ahead.

The kitchen was compact but workable, and after a brief reconnaissance I discovered the previous guests had left behind a jar of something unidentifiable and three sad-looking tea bags. This would not do. We dumped our bags and marched straight out to find food, any food, before hunger turned us against each other.

Cattolica's main strip was buzzing even in early evening, and we stumbled upon a little alimentari that was still open. The woman behind the counter looked at me with the patient expression of someone who has seen many hungry Brits in her time. I pointed at things. She bagged things. I came away with prosciutto di Parma, because we were in Emilia Romagna and it would have been rude not to, some pecorino that smelled like it meant business, a crusty loaf, and tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes. The novelty. I also, in a moment of what I can only call holiday optimism, bought a bag of fresh tagliatelle and a pot of ragu from the fridge section. I was going to cook properly tomorrow. I absolutely was.

Back at the flat, we assembled a makeshift dinner on the tiny balcony that was less a meal and more an emergency intervention. The prosciutto was ridiculous. Paper-thin, nutty, the sort of thing that makes you angry about what passes for ham back home. The tomatoes needed nothing except a drizzle of the olive oil I found in the cupboard, which I suspect was left by someone with better foresight than me. We ate in near silence, which is always the mark of decent food.

The next morning I was up early, still on UK body clock, and decided to attack the local market before the heat kicked in. The Cattolica market runs along the seafront certain mornings, and it is an absolute circus of produce. I wandered about with my little shopping bag feeling terribly continental, buying things I had no immediate plan for. Fresh porcini mushrooms, because they were there and I am weak. More of those tomatoes. A hunk of Parmigiano Reggiano that cost more than I expected but weighed more than my forearm, so fair enough. Some local squacquerone cheese that the vendor insisted I try, which turned out to be soft and slightly tangy and absolutely perfect for spreading on things.

I also bought a bottle of Sangiovese from a stall that had set up alongside the food vendors, because Emilia Romagna does not mess about with its wines and I am easily influenced. The woman selling it poured me a taste and I nodded enthusiastically, though in truth my palate was still waking up and I would have nodded at anything. It was lovely though. Earthy and proper.

Lunch that day was a picnic assembly job on the beach, which is the correct use of a self-catering kitchen in my opinion. Cheese, bread, some mortadella I had picked up, and the squacquerone which had started to ooze slightly in the heat but tasted all the better for it. We ate with sandy fingers and no regrets.

The evening was where my hubris caught up with me. I had that fresh tagliatelle. I had that ragu. I had ambition. What I did not have, as I discovered too late, was a pan large enough to cook pasta for two without it turning into a starchy logjam. The tagliatelle clumped. The ragu, which I had gently reheated with what I thought was appropriate care, reduced slightly too far and took on a caramelised edge that was not entirely intentional. I plated it up with a flourish anyway, garnished with some basil I had nicked from a pot on the balcony that I later realised might not have been mine to nick.

It was not my finest hour. My partner, who is kind, said it was rustic. I knew what rustic meant. We ate it anyway, because holiday calories do not count and because there is something fundamentally satisfying about eating your own disasters in a foreign country. The wine helped. The wine helped a great deal.

The following morning I found a proper fishmonger near the harbour, another early start, another market adventure. The catch was laid out on ice with the confidence of people who know exactly how fresh their stock is. I bought some sardines, because they were cheap and I had read somewhere that Cattolica sardines were a thing, and some clams that I had absolutely no idea how to cook but felt emotionally prepared to attempt.

That evening I kept it simple. The sardines got a dusting of the flour I found in the back of a cupboard, a quick fry in olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon. The clams I steamed open with garlic and white wine, standing over the pan like a nervous parent, jiggling them about until they surrendered. We ate on the balcony again, picking at the clams with our fingers, tearing bread to mop up the juices, watching the last of the evening swimmers come in from the sea.

It was not sophisticated. It was not even particularly skilled. But it was ours, made in a tiny kitchen with borrowed equipment and excessive optimism, and it tasted of the place in a way that no restaurant meal quite manages. The sardines were oily and rich, the clams sweet and slightly briny, and I felt genuinely proud in a way that surprised me.

I had come to Cattolica thinking I would eat out, do the proper tourist thing, let professionals handle it. Instead I found myself hunting down ingredients, making a fool of myself with my terrible Italian, producing meals that ranged from the genuinely decent to the actively embarrassing. I would not change a single clumped tagliatelle of it. Some holidays are about being looked after. This one, I realised, was about figuring it out yourself, one market stall and one slightly too small pan at a time.