I have never been so relieved to see a pothole in my life. After six hours of driving from Ancona airport, convinced my sat nav had developed a personal vendetta against me, I finally rattled over a crater so impressively Italian that I knew Cingoli must be close. The mishap, though, came three minutes later when I confidently reversed into what I assumed was our rental driveway and wedged the Fiat's bumper neatly between two stone walls that had probably stood since the Renaissance. A cheerful local chap appeared from nowhere, laughed heartily, and guided me out with the patient air of someone who had watched countless Brits make exactly this mistake. I tipped him with the only English thing I had: a packet of Custard Creams. He looked baffled but pleased.

The property itself sat perched on a hillside with views that made my parking trauma instantly worthwhile. Terracotta tiles, shuttered windows, that particular honey-coloured stone that seems to glow at sunset. I dumped my bags and made straight for the kitchen, because I had plans. Grand plans. I was going to cook like an Italian nonna, armed with nothing but enthusiasm and a Jamie Oliver cookbook I'd found in a charity shop.

My first morning began with a mission to Cingoli's weekly market, which occupies the cobbled streets near the old town walls every Tuesday. I arrived embarrassingly early, the way overeager tourists do, and found stallholders still unpacking crates of artichokes, bundles of wild asparagus, and wheels of pecorino that smelled properly assertive. I bought far too much: fat porcini mushrooms, a string of garlic plaited like a medieval weapon, tomatoes that actually tasted of something, and a hunk of cured lonza that I nibbled on the walk back. A vendor pressed a slice of ciauscolo salami into my hand with such insistence that refusing felt rude. It spread like pate, rich and peppery, and I immediately bought twice as much as any sensible person needed.

Back at the house, I attempted lunch. My mushroom risotto was, by generous assessment, edible. The rice had bite, which I told myself was al dente rather than undercooked. The porcini shone through regardless, earthy and substantial, and I ate the lot on the terrace with a glass of Verdicchio that cost less than a London coffee. The view of rolling hills patched with olive groves and sunflowers made even my culinary mediocrity feel somehow sophisticated.

Dinner that evening was meant to be simple. Grilled vegetables, local sausages, a salad. I managed to set off the smoke alarm twice, discovered the grill pan had a temperament I had not anticipated, and produced sausages that were charred without and suspiciously pink within. I ate them anyway, with bread from the bakery near Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, tearing chunks to mop up juices and feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. The tomatoes, sliced roughly and dressed with nothing but salt and the grassy local olive oil, were the best thing on the plate. It is humbling when raw ingredients outperform your best efforts.

By day three I had established a routine. Morning market for whatever looked good, afternoon attempting to transform it into something respectable, evening eating on the terrace with wine and the distant sound of church bells. I made brodetto, the fish stew traditional to this stretch of Adriatic coast, using a motley selection from a fish van that appeared in the village on Thursday mornings. It was more broth than stew, if I am honest, but the saffron and tomato base was restorative, and the local white wine I splashed in generously improved both the dish and my mood.

My proudest moment came with a simple pasta e ceci, chickpea pasta, cooked slowly with rosemary and garlic until it thickened into something genuinely comforting. I ate it in a bowl on my lap, watching swallows dart across the evening sky, and felt briefly capable. The next morning I attempted to recreate it for breakfast, because I had become that person, and it was somehow even better cold.

The kitchen in the property was basic but well-equipped, and I grew fond of its quirks: the wobbly chopping board, the knife that could probably use sharpening, the way the evening light came through the window at exactly the angle to blind you while checking the oven. I left with a notebook full of scrawled recipes, a new appreciation for letting quality ingredients do the heavy lifting, and a stubborn determination to source proper ciauscolo back in the UK, though I suspect I will be disappointed.

On my final evening, I produced a meal that approached competence. Grilled lamb cutlets from the butcher on Via Roma, simply seasoned and cooked properly for once. Roasted peppers that collapsed into sweetness. That same bakery bread, still warm when I bought it. I sat with it all as the sun dropped behind the hills, slightly sunburned, definitely overfed, and genuinely sad to be leaving. The Custard Cream man waved at me from his garden as I ate. I raised my glass to him. Some holidays are about what you see. This one, I realised, had been about what I tasted, what I attempted, and what I gradually, messily learned.