The drive down from Genoa had been all tunnel, sun, tunnel, sun, until suddenly the motorway spat us out above a sweep of blue so bright it looked digitally enhanced. My partner, Dave, was navigating, which meant his phone was balanced on his knee while he swore at Italian lorries. "Next left," he announced, far too late, and we ended up doing a full circuit of a roundabout dedicated to some local cycling hero while our satnav had what I can only describe as a small electronic breakdown. By the time we found the holiday home in Finale Ligure, I had eaten an entire packet of mints out of stress and Dave had developed a twitch in his left eye.

The property sat up a narrow lane, all pastel walls and terracotta tiles, with a terrace that looked down towards the sea through a tangle of bougainvillea. We tumbled out of the car, stretched, and immediately discovered that I had left our carefully compiled shopping list on the kitchen table in Manchester. Dave found this hilarious until he realised it meant he was complicit in whatever culinary disasters followed.

Our first morning began with a pilgrimage to the market in Finalborgo, the medieval heart of the town. We had been told, by a neighbour whose Italian was only slightly better than our own, that Saturday was the day. We arrived before eight, still operating on British time, and found stallholders setting up with the unhurried precision of people who have been doing this for generations. I bought tomatoes that smelled actually tomatoey, which sounds obvious but after British supermarkets feels revelatory. Dave got distracted by a cheese vendor and returned clutching a wheel of something aged and intimidating that we later discovered cost more than our car parking.

That first lunch was meant to be simple. Bruschetta, we thought. How hard could it be? The bread, from a bakery near the harbour, was sensational. The olive oil, which we had purchased in a tin that made us feel authentic, was peppery and green. I managed to set off the smoke alarm toasting the bread, and Dave sliced his finger attempting to demonstrate a chopping technique he had seen once on television. We ate on the terrace, bandaged and defiant, and agreed it was probably the best meal we had ever had. The tomatoes had collapsed into the oil in a way that felt almost indecent. We opened a bottle of Vermentino that was so cold it hurt our teeth.

By day three we had established a routine. Morning coffee at a bar in the piazza, standing at the counter like locals, though the barista clearly recognised us as the English couple who kept pointing at things. Then the market, or the fishmonger near the marina, or the alimentari where an elderly woman patiently explained why we could not simply buy "some pesto" but must specify basil, rocket, or walnut. We bought all three, naturally. The walnut one was a mistake, but a noble one.

Our cooking attempts grew bolder and more chaotic. Dave attempted a Ligurian rabbit stew after finding a recipe written entirely in Italian, which he translated using an app that apparently specialised in poetry rather than cookery. The result was edible but spiritually confused. I made focaccia that rose beautifully and then stuck to the tin with the determination of something that wanted to remain part of the kitchen forever. We ate it anyway, scraping the bottom with a spoon, and agreed that the charred bits added character.

The evening meals became our religion. We would walk down to the harbour as the light turned golden, past the pastel buildings with their green shutters, and choose somewhere with tables spilling onto the pavement. The first time, I ordered trofie al pesto because it felt obligatory, and spent the entire meal making involuntary noises of pleasure that Dave found deeply embarrassing. He had the anchovies, which arrived simply grilled and glistening, and spent his own meal in similar throes. We drank more Vermentino. We always drank more Vermentino.

On our final morning, I attempted to recreate the market bruschetta one last time. The smoke alarm remained silent. The tomatoes collapsed obligingly. We sat on the terrace with our coffee and our oil and our slightly singed bread, watching the sea do its endless blue thing, and I thought about how we had come here with a list we lost, and found something better in the not-knowing. Dave was already talking about next year, about learning proper Italian, about maybe not setting off the smoke alarm. I watched him spread cheese on bread with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb, and thought that this was it, really. The small disasters. The good oil. The sitting still long enough to taste something properly.