I have never been so relieved to see a kitchen in my life. After six hours of driving from Venice Marco Polo airport, during which I managed to get spectacularly lost in a vineyard near Udine because I trusted Google Maps over actual road signs, I finally pulled up to our stone cottage just outside Tolmezzo. The mishap? I had spent forty-five minutes reversing down a gravel track, convinced it was a shortcut, only to be politely informed by an elderly gentleman on a scooter that I was trespassing through his family's prosecco operation. He was terribly nice about it. I was terribly embarrassed.

But back to the kitchen. It was the first thing I inspected, before the bedrooms, before the view, before even locating the loo. White tiles, wooden beams, a proper gas hob with four burners, and a fridge that hummed with the comforting efficiency of something that actually worked. I had big plans for this kitchen. Grand plans. I had packed my favourite chef's knife in my checked luggage, wrapped in three pairs of socks, and I intended to use it.

The following morning I walked into Tolmezzo itself, which took about twenty minutes down a lane fragrant with wild mint and woodsmoke. The town's weekly market was in full swing in Piazza XX Settembre, and I immediately understood why self-catering in this part of Friuli is less a choice and more a moral imperative. There were stalls heaped with white asparagus, still damp from the fields, and bunches of radicchio di Treviso so crimson and tightly furled they looked almost architectural. An enormous woman in a blue apron was selling polenta by the kilo, already cooked and set in slabs like building materials. I bought one. It weighed approximately the same as a house brick.

My first cooking attempt that evening was meant to be simple. Frico, the local cheese and potato pancake, supposedly the easiest thing in the Friulian repertoire. I had the Montasio cheese, aged and fragrant, from the market. I had potatoes. I had confidence. What I did not have, apparently, was any understanding of how much fat a proper frico requires. My attempt emerged from the pan as a sad, sticking, cheese-scented cracker. My partner ate it without complaint, which I now recognise was an act of profound marital kindness. I ate standing at the hob, scraping the burnt bits with a spatula and muttering.

The next day I did what I should have done immediately. I asked for help. At a tiny alimentari on Via Cavour, a man named Giorgio spent twenty minutes explaining frico technique while his wife wrapped my purchases in paper. More butter than you think. Lower heat than you think. Patience you absolutely do not possess. His frico, which I sampled because he insisted, was a revelation: lacy at the edges, substantial in the middle, the cheese crystallised into tiny crunchy pockets. I bought more Montasio. I would not be defeated.

By day four I had achieved something respectable. Not Giorgio-level, but respectable. I paired it with prosciutto San Daniele, which I had driven the short distance to buy from a proper salumeria, and some pickled vegetables from another market vendor whose name I never learned but whose giardiniera I will dream about for years. We ate on the cottage terrace as the light went soft over the Carnic Alps, drinking a local Friulano that cost less than a London sandwich.

I also became slightly obsessed with the town's bakeries. There were two within easy walking distance, and I developed a morning rotation. One did better brioche, the other superior bread. Both opened at half seven, and both had elderly men in flat caps who would queue in silent, competitive formation. I joined them. I bought grissini by the armful, and a yeasted cake called gubana that I initially thought too dense but came to crave with coffee.

My final market visit, on the Saturday before we left, was pure performance. I knew the stalls now. I had opinions about which tomato vendor had the best San Marzanos. I haggled, slightly, over a bottle of local honey, and felt absurdly pleased with myself. Back at the cottage I made a ragu with sausage from the butcher near the cathedral, simmered for three hours while I read a paperback and drank more of that ridiculous Friulano. The kitchen smelled of proper things. Tomatoes. Fennel. Time.

On our last evening I attempted frico one more time. It was not perfect. It was better than perfect. It was mine. We ate it with the last of the market vegetables, some bread that was already going slightly stale, and a sense that I had somehow, unexpectedly, learned something about patience and butter and the value of asking Giorgio for help.

I packed the chef's knife in three pairs of socks for the journey home. I left the remaining polenta slab behind. Some things are meant to stay in Friuli.