I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to fill up the hire car with petrol in Trieste and spent a good five minutes wrestling with a diesel nozzle before a very patient Italian man tapped on my window and explained, in excellent English, that I was at the wrong pump and also the wrong fuel type entirely. Classic. By the time I finally wound my way up through the hills towards San Pietro al Natisone, I was absolutely starving, slightly traumatised by Italian roundabouts, and ready to eat literally anything that wasn't motorway service station panini.

The property itself was a proper little gem, tucked into the hillside with views that made me forget all about my fuel-related shame. But honestly? The kitchen was what really got me excited. Proper cooker, decent knives, and a fridge that looked like it could handle serious business. I dumped my bags, did the quickest tour in history, and headed straight for the local shops to stock up.

Here's where I made my second rookie error. I marched into the alimentari in San Pietro al Natisone with grand plans of cooking some authentic Friulian masterpiece, armed with nothing but enthusiasm and GCSE Italian from 1998. I pointed at things. I nodded confidently when I didn't understand. I came away with what I thought were ingredients for a simple pasta dish and what turned out to be, upon closer inspection in the cottage kitchen, three different types of cured meat, a cheese I couldn't pronounce, some kind of pickled vegetable situation, and absolutely no pasta whatsoever. The tomatoes were correct though. Small victories.

That first evening I cobbled together the most ridiculous charcuterie board you've ever seen, ate it standing at the kitchen counter with my fingers because I'd also forgotten to buy cutlery, and washed it down with a bottle of local Friulano that cost about six euros and tasted like it should have cost thirty. I sat on the terrace as the light went soft over the Natisone valley, picking at my accidental feast, and felt genuinely pleased with myself. Sometimes the best meals are the ones you never planned.

The next morning I found the proper market in Cividale, about twenty minutes away, and everything changed. This was clearly where I should have started. The fruit and vegetables looked like they'd been painted, the cheese stalls had samples that I definitely took too many of, and I bought fresh eggs from a woman who seemed deeply sceptical about my ability to transport them safely. She was right to worry. One broke in my bag on the way back and made everything smell interesting for the rest of the day.

I got better though. By day three I was making proper cjarsons, those little stuffed pasta parcels that are apparently a big deal round here. Well, I say making. I was attempting them. My first batch looked like sad little dumplings that had given up on life, but they tasted decent enough, especially with browned butter and a grating of Montasio cheese that I'd been ageing in the fridge door like I knew what I was doing.

The local bakery became my morning ritual. I'd wander down for bread still warm from the oven, usually managing to buy twice what I needed because everything looked so good. The woman behind the counter started recognising me, which felt like a genuine achievement, and would throw in extra biscotti with what I chose to interpret as affection rather than pity.

One evening I tried to recreate a frico I'd eaten at a tiny osteria, that crispy cheese and potato pancake that sounds simple and absolutely isn't. My version stuck to the pan, set off the smoke alarm, and became something I could only describe as cheese-related abstract art. I ate it anyway, standing on the terrace again, drinking more of that ridiculous Friulano and laughing at myself. Some holidays are about perfect experiences, and some are about setting off smoke alarms in foreign countries and eating your mistakes with genuine pleasure.

By the end of the week my fridge was a chaotic masterpiece of local produce, my waistline had taken a hit, and I'd developed genuine opinions about the difference between San Daniele and regular prosciutto that nobody back home would want to hear. I left San Pietro al Natisone with a bag full of cheese, a slightly expanded vocabulary for food words, and the certain knowledge that I'd be back, hopefully with better Italian and a more reliable sense of direction.