I have never been more grateful for a satnav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey from Olbia airport to our holiday home in Badesi was supposed to take about an hour and twenty minutes, which in Sardinian terms apparently means "we shall see." The roads narrowed, the signs grew cryptic, and then, in a moment of spectacular overconfidence, I decided the satnav was wrong and I knew better. Ten minutes later I was reversing down a farm track while a very patient goat watched from a stone wall, judging me silently. My partner found this hilarious. I did not, though I can laugh about it now. Mostly.

We arrived at the property as the afternoon light was turning golden across the hills, and the first thing that struck me was the smell. Not the sea, though that came later, but herbs. Wild rosemary and thyme growing in the scrubland around the terrace, warm from the sun and sharp in the air. The place itself was simple and unpretentious, white walls and terracotta tiles, a small kitchen that looked out towards the coast. I put our bags down, opened a bottle of Vermentino that had been chilling in the fridge, and stood on the terrace feeling rather pleased with myself despite the goat incident. Then my stomach rumbled, and I remembered we had nothing to eat.

The following morning I walked into Badesi village with serious intentions. The little supermarket near the church was my first stop, and I made a classic rookie error. I saw pecorino sardo and bought an enormous wedge. I saw bottarga and thought, yes, I shall become the sort of person who knows what to do with dried mullet roe. I bought artichokes still attached to their long stems, feeling very rural and authentic, then realised I had no idea how to prepare them. By the time I reached the bakery for pane carasau, I was carrying so many paper bags that I had to stop twice on the walk back to redistribute the load. A local man on a scooter passed me, looked at my struggling figure, and shouted something cheerful that I choose to believe was encouragement rather than mockery.

That evening I attempted my first proper self-catering meal. The artichokes were a disaster. I trimmed them badly, boiled them too long, and served them to my partner with an optimism that quickly faded. We ate them anyway, because we are British and because waste feels criminal when you have carried something up a hill in thirty-degree heat. The pecorino, however, was magnificent. I shaved it over pasta with nothing more than olive oil, garlic, and a pinch of dried chilli flakes I found in the back of the kitchen cupboard. We ate on the terrace as the sun went down, and I felt genuinely proud of myself. This, I thought, is what holidays should be. Simple food, simple pleasure, and the gentle humiliation of learning as you go.

The market in Trinita d'Agultu, a few kilometres along the coast, became my Saturday morning ritual. I say ritual; I went twice. But in my defence, the second time I knew what I was doing. I bought proper tomatoes, the kind that actually taste of something, and fresh sausages made with wild fennel from a butcher who spoke no English and tolerated my pointing with good grace. I learned to ask for "un etto" rather than gesturing vaguely and hoping. I discovered that the elderly woman selling honey would give you a taste on a tiny wooden spoon if you smiled enough, and that her corbezzolo honey was worth every cent of its alarming price.

Back at the house, my cooking improved marginally. I made fregola with clams one evening, following a recipe I found on my phone with patchy WiFi, and it was actually good. The sort of good where you pause mid-bite and look at your partner with surprise. I grilled fish on the little barbecue on the terrace, whole sea bream stuffed with lemon and the herbs I had finally learned to identify correctly. The bottarga remained in the fridge, untouched and intimidating, until our final night when I grated it sparingly over spaghetti and understood at last why people bother. It tastes of the sea in the most concentrated, almost aggressive way, like someone has distilled an entire coastline into a single salty, fishy, wonderful dust.

I did not become a brilliant cook that fortnight. I became a slightly less bad one, and more importantly, I became someone who understood that Sardinian food is not about technique. It is about ingredients that have not travelled far, about eating what is in season because that is simply what there is, about sitting down when the food is ready rather than when the clock says so. One evening I made a complete hash of some octopus I had bought on impulse, overcooking it until it had the texture of a rubber bath mat. We laughed, opened more wine, and ate bread and cheese instead. It did not matter. Nothing mattered except that we were there, full of good things mostly, and temporarily free from the nonsense of ordinary life.

On our last morning I walked to the village bakery for one final loaf of pane carasau, that miraculous paper-thin bread that stays crisp for days and makes you wonder why anyone bothers with normal crackers. I bought a small cake too, some almond confection that crumbled in the most satisfying way. I ate a piece on the walk home, flakes falling down my shirt, not caring. The goat was nowhere to be seen. I like to think we had both learned something.