I have never been so relieved to see a sign for "Puegnago Sul Garda" in all my life, mostly because thirty minutes earlier I had been confidently navigating us towards what I was absolutely certain was our turn-off, only to discover I had been reading the map upside down. My other half sat in the passenger seat with that particular expression of British restraint that says "I am not saying I told you so" while very much saying it. We had already done one full circuit of a roundabout near Salo, waving apologetically at the same confused motorcyclist three times.

The property itself, when we finally found it, was one of those classic Northern Italian Lakes villas tucked into the hillside with olive groves pressing in from every side. Terra cotta roof, pale plaster walls, a terrace that looked out over Lake Garda with the sort of view that makes you immediately forgive yourself for being geographically incompetent. I stood there with a warm beer from the boot and declared we would never leave, that we would become olive farmers, that this was our life now. My other half was already inspecting the kitchen with the focused attention of someone who had been promised proper home-cooked meals.

The kitchen, I should say, was genuinely excellent. Proper gas hob, decent knives, a fridge that actually kept things cold unlike the tragic caravan cooler we had endured in Cornwall the previous summer. We had stopped at a supermarket in Desenzano on the way up, loading up on the basics in that slightly manic way you do when you have driven for hours and cannot properly assess quantities. Fourteen eggs. Why fourteen? I do not know. A hunk of parmesan the size of a house brick. Some local olive oil in a tin that looked properly serious. A packet of something labelled simply "pasta" that I grabbed because the packaging was pleasingly unfussy.

That first evening we attempted a simple pasta aglio e olio, which I have made perhaps fifty times at home and yet somehow, in this foreign kitchen with my foreign eggs and my foreign house-brick cheese, I managed to make the garlic bitter. I had got overexcited about the quality of the olive oil and used approximately three times the sensible amount. The pasta itself was magnificent though, genuinely different from anything I buy at home, with a rough texture that clung to the oil in a way that felt almost deliberate. We ate it on the terrace as the light went pink over the lake, and I announced that this was living, this was proper living, bitter garlic and all.

The following morning I was up early, determined to redeem myself. The local market in Puegnago itself runs on certain days, and I had made it my mission. I am not naturally a morning person on holiday, but the promise of proper ingredients dragged me from bed. The market was small, unpretentious, exactly what you want from a local Italian town. An old woman selling tomatoes that smelled actually tomatoey, which sounds absurd but you know what I mean. Proper buffalo mozzarella that was still wet, still weeping slightly in its plastic tub. I bought bread from a man who seemed mildly offended that I wanted it sliced, and some local salami that he cut with theatrical precision.

Back at the villa I constructed a lunch of such simple perfection that I briefly considered never cooking a complicated meal again. Bread, mozzarella, tomatoes sliced thick and dressed with that serious olive oil, the salami torn rather than cut because I had read somewhere that this was correct. We ate in silence for several minutes, which in our household is the highest possible praise. I caught myself feeling genuinely emotional about a tomato, which is either the effect of the place or I am simply getting soft in my middle years.

The cooking attempts continued in this vein throughout the week. Some successes, some minor disasters. I attempted risotto one evening and achieved something that was edible but required approximately forty minutes of stirring and left my arm aching for two days. I bought fresh lake fish from a small shop in Gardone Riviera, pan-fried it simply with lemon, and felt briefly like a person who understood food in a deep and meaningful way. The next night I burned some polenta so thoroughly that we ended up eating bread and cheese on the terrace again, which was absolutely no hardship.

By the end of the week I had developed a small routine. Morning coffee on the terrace, then a walk to see what the local shops had, then a long lazy lunch assembled rather than cooked, then perhaps a more ambitious evening meal with wine from a bottle that cost less than a London coffee. I bought proper balsamic vinegar from a place just outside town, the thick aged stuff that costs more than you expect but transforms strawberries into something almost indecent. I made a tiramisu one afternoon, using proper mascarpone and coffee from a moka pot that I found in the back of a cupboard, and ate approximately half of it standing at the kitchen counter in my pants before my other half came back from the pool.

What struck me most, I think, was how the quality of the ingredients did so much of the work. At home I am a competent cook, nothing more. Here, with tomatoes that tasted of sunlight and olive oil that actually tasted of olives, I felt briefly gifted. It was humbling and slightly annoying, if I am honest. I wanted to claim the credit for the wonderful meals, but mostly I was just not ruining excellent produce.

On our final evening we did a simple thing with pasta, butter, and parmesan, the kind of dish that requires nothing but good ingredients and patience. I got the garlic right this time, just golden at the edges, nutty and sweet. We ate slowly, watching the last of the light on the lake, already talking about what we would cook when we got home, already knowing it would not taste quite the same. I had started the week lost and upside-down, and I ended it slightly fuller, slightly softer around the edges in more ways than one, already planning our return before the parmesan was even finished.