The Sat Nav Saga and a Very Hungry Arrival in Fabrica Di Roma

I have come to the conclusion that Italian Sat Navs possess a sense of humour that borders on the sadistic. There we were, my partner and I, crawling through the Lazio countryside in our hire car, convinced we were minutes from our holiday home in Fabrica Di Roma, when the robotic voice cheerfully directed us down what can only be described as a gravelled goat path. A goat path, I should add, that terminated in someone's olive grove. The someone in question emerged from his farmhouse, scratching his head and looking thoroughly unimpressed, while I performed a seventeen-point turn that would have made my driving instructor weep into his clipboard.

We arrived at the property forty minutes later than planned, slightly shaken, absolutely ravenous, and in desperate need of something edible. The kind woman who handed over the keys took one look at our hollow expressions and produced a bottle of local white wine from her bag. "For later," she said, though we nearly cracked it open on the spot.

The first thing I did after dumping our suitcases was investigate the kitchen. This was, I had decided, going to be a holiday centred entirely on food. No museums, no historical sites, no cultural enlightenment. Just eating, cooking, and occasionally attempting both simultaneously. The kitchen at the property proved encouragingly well-equipped, with a proper gas hob and an oven that looked like it might actually reach temperature without staging a protest.

Our first evening, we made the executive decision to walk into Fabrica Di Roma proper rather than risk the car and its treacherous guidance system. The village sits perched on tufo rock, all narrow streets and medieval character, and we wandered about in that dazed, hungry state where everything smells delicious and every restaurant menu becomes a sacred text. We settled on a tiny trattoria near the main piazza, where I ordered cacio e pepe with the confidence of someone who absolutely could not replicate it at home. The pasta arrived, perfectly coated in pecorino and black pepper, and I spent the entire meal making noises that my partner found deeply embarrassing.

The following morning, our food mission properly commenced. We located the weekly market, held in the village centre, and I immediately lost all self-control. The stalls groaned with produce that looked like it had been painted rather than grown: tomatoes still warm from the sun, bunches of basil that filled the entire square with their peppery scent, wheels of pecorino romano cut fresh to order. I bought far more than two people could reasonably consume, including some artichokes that were, in retrospect, probably intended for a family of six.

Back at the property, I attempted my first self-catering lunch with the misplaced confidence of someone who had watched approximately forty-five minutes of Italian cookery programming. The bruschetta went well enough. The artichoke preparation did not. I had neglected to account for the fibrous choke, and spent twenty minutes wrestling with leaves before admitting defeat and consulting YouTube on my phone, standing in the kitchen with olive oil up to my wrists. My partner, wisely, opened the wine.

By evening, humbled but undeterred, I attempted a simple pasta aglio e olio. The garlic, purchased from the market that morning, was absurdly flavourful, and I may have overdone the quantity. We ate it on the terrace as the sun went down over the Lazio hills, both of us making occasional comments about how "robust" the garlic was, neither of us willing to admit that we could probably repel vampires for a three-mile radius.

The next few days settled into a glorious rhythm of market visits, cooking experiments, and occasional restaurant meals for comparison purposes. I became slightly obsessed with the local butcher, a man who spoke no English and tolerated my phrasebook Italian with the patience of a saint. He sold me guanciale for amatriciana, explaining with elaborate hand gestures exactly how to render the fat. I followed his instructions with religious devotion and produced something that, while not precisely authentic, was at least recognisably food.

One morning we discovered a bakery on the edge of the village, open absurdly early and producing cornetti that ruined British croissants for me permanently. I ate three standing at the counter, drinking espresso that tasted like liquid ambition, and watched local farmers conduct entire social lives over their morning coffee. The baker, amused by my enthusiasm, wrapped an extra few bomboloni in paper and pressed them into my hands.

My most ambitious cooking attempt came on our fourth day, when I decided to tackle porchetta. This was, I can now admit with the clarity of hindsight, a mistake of magnificent proportions. The butcher provided a beautiful piece of rolled pork belly. I had fresh rosemary, garlic, and what I believed to be sufficient confidence. The result was edible, certainly, and the crackling achieved a respectable snap, but the interior remained stubbornly underdone despite hours in the oven. We ate the edges, praised the flavour, and quietly ordered pizza from a nearby place that evening. Some defeats, I reflected, teach more than victories.

The property's terrace became our dining room for nearly every meal, breakfast through dinner. We ate peaches so ripe they required napkins and a certain delicacy of approach. We assembled plates of cured meats and cheeses with the seriousness of curators arranging an exhibition. One memorable lunch consisted entirely of market purchases: fresh mozzarella, still warm and weeping milk, torn bread, tomatoes sliced and dressed with nothing but salt and the local oil, which was green-gold and tasted of grass and pepper.

On our final morning, I attempted one last market visit, arriving earlier than usual to watch the stallholders set up. The vegetable man recognised me by this point and threw in extra courgette flowers, which I had been frying in batter with varying success throughout the week. I bought bread from the bakery, cheese from the woman whose family had made it for three generations, and returned to the property to assemble one last breakfast before our departure.

We sat on that terrace eating simply, drinking the last of the local wine, neither of us particularly keen to leave. The Sat Nav sat in the car, silent and innocent, as if it had not nearly destroyed our sanity on arrival. I had learned, I supposed, that my cooking ambitions would always exceed my abilities, that Italian ingredients forgave more than British ones, and that there was profound pleasure in feeding yourself from what grew within a few miles of where you slept.

The drive back to the airport was uneventful, the Sat Nav behaving with suspicious good behaviour. We stopped once for coffee, standing at a bar in some town whose name I never caught, and I ordered with something approaching competence. The barman understood me perfectly. Small victories, I thought, sipping my espresso. Small, caffeinated, thoroughly satisfying victories.