Getting to Imperia was always going to be an adventure, though I had not quite bargained for the kind that would leave me standing on a sun-baked platform with a wheelie bag full of olive oil and absolutely no idea which bus went where. I had done what any sensible person does before a self-catering trip to Liguria: I packed a bottle of decent extra virgin in my checked luggage, reasoning that a flat in Imperia without proper oil would be like a pub without beer. What I failed to pack was any functioning knowledge of Italian bus numbers, or indeed a phone with charge after using Google Maps for three solid hours through France.

The mishap, then, was this: I spotted a bus with "Imperia" on the front, leaped aboard with the misplaced confidence of a man who once successfully ordered a pizza in Rome, and found myself twenty minutes later in a village whose name I still cannot pronounce, surrounded by lemon groves and a very old man who seemed to find my predicament genuinely hilarious. He was right to laugh. I was hot, I was lost, and my wheelie bag was making that awful scraping noise that wheelie bags make when you drag them across cobbles in a state of quiet panic.

A second bus, much gesturing, and one kindly nonna later, I arrived at the flat in Imperia proper. And here is where I must pause for that gentle self-reflection I promised, because standing in that compact, tiled kitchen with its view of terracotta rooftops sloping down toward the sea, I understood something about myself. I am a man who will confidently navigate foreign public transport without preparation, yet I will also pack a bottle of olive oil as if my life depends on it. The contradictions of the enthusiastic but disorganised cook, I suppose. The kitchen had everything I needed and nothing I deserved after my bus-based foolishness: a decent hob, a fridge that actually worked, and a small balcony where I could sit with a beer and contemplate my errors.

The first thing I did, naturally, was head to the market. Not the supermarket, mind you, but the proper morning market down near the port, where the fishmongers shout and the vegetable stalls overflow with things I could not always name. I bought anchovies because this is Liguria and one must, though I had never prepared fresh anchovies in my life. I bought bunches of basil that smelled so intensely of summer that I kept lifting them to my nose like some sort of herb-obsessed weirdo. I bought tomatoes that were actually ripe, which feels worth mentioning because the ones at my local Tesco have trained me to expect disappointment.

That first evening I attempted pasta with pesto, because when in Liguria and all that. My attempt was... earnest. The basil was perfect, the pine nuts toasted with more attention than I have ever given anything, but I misjudged the pasta water and ended up with something slightly thicker than intended, more paste than pesto if I am honest. I ate it on that little balcony with a cheap Vermentino and felt genuinely pleased with myself anyway. The view helped. The warm air helped. The second bottle helped most of all.

The following mornings became a routine I quickly adored. Coffee from the moka pot, then down to the bakery for focaccia still warm from the oven. Ligurian focaccia is nothing like the sad, thick stuff we get at home; it is thin and oily and salty, with a texture that manages to be both crisp and yielding. I would tear pieces off while walking back, unable to wait, getting oil on my fingers and not caring in the slightest. Sometimes I would stop at a bar for a second coffee, standing at the counter like a local, though my pronunciation of "cappuccino" probably gave me away immediately.

I cooked badly and I cooked well, sometimes in the same meal. A fish stew one evening was genuinely excellent, if I do say so myself, the fresh anchovies melting into a tomato base with garlic and white wine. A vegetable tart the next day was less successful, the pastry somehow both undercooked and burnt, a culinary magic trick I did not know I possessed. I ate it anyway, sitting on that balcony, watching the light change over the rooftops.

The market became my morning religion. I learned which stall had the best zucchini, which fishmonger would clean your squid without making you feel foolish for asking. I learned that the old women shopping there took no prisoners, elbowing past with baskets full of artichokes and serious expressions. I tried to shop like them, with purpose and certainty, though I suspect I still looked like what I was: a hungry Englishman abroad, slightly overwhelmed by choice.

By the end of the week my fridge contained the debris of good intentions: half a lemon wrapped in foil, some wilting rocket, a tub of olives I had convinced myself I would somehow finish. I had gained weight I did not regret. I had learned that fresh anchovies are not so frightening after all, that pesto from a jar is a crime against Liguria, and that I am capable of getting on entirely the wrong bus and still, eventually, finding my way to something wonderful.