I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong front door. There we were, me and my partner, standing in a narrow lane in Orgosolo, Sardinia, jiggling a key in a lock while an elderly gentleman peered at us from his balcony with the kind of patience only decades of watching tourists can teach you. Turns out our actual holiday home was three doors down. The gentleman, whose name I later learned was Paolo, simply pointed and went back to his espresso. I like to think he enjoyed the free entertainment.

The journey from Cagliari had been straightforward enough, though I'd insisted on taking the scenic mountain route, which added an hour and several white-knuckle moments to our trip. The hire car was barely big enough for my ambitions, which mainly involved filling it with food from every market we passed. By the time we finally located the correct property, I was already starving and slightly carsick, a combination that makes me unpleasantly decisive about dinner.

The house itself was perfect in that understated Sardinian way. Thick stone walls, wooden beams, a kitchen that looked like it had seen forty years of proper use. I immediately opened every cupboard, as one does, and found the usual holiday rental assortment: mismatched plates, a blunt bread knife, and one enormous pot that could feed twelve. I mentally planned a feast for two that would require it.

Our first evening, we walked into Orgosolo's small centre, past the famous murals that cover nearly every wall. Political, historical, occasionally baffling - they're worth the trip alone, though I was mainly concentrating on finding somewhere to eat. We settled on a tiny trattoria where the menu was verbal and the wine came in a jug. I ordered culurgiones, those ridged pasta parcels filled with potato and mint, and spent the entire meal trying to work out how the ridges were made. The waiter, seeing my intense concentration, demonstrated with his fingers. I nodded as if I understood. I absolutely did not.

The next morning, I was up early for the market. Orgosolo's weekly market is modest compared to Cagliari's, but that's precisely its charm. I bought pecorino sardo from a woman who sliced me samples until I felt obligated to purchase more than reasonable, pane carasau that shattered in the bag, and sausages that smelled faintly of wild fennel. I also bought something I couldn't identify, which the vendor explained was a type of dried bean. I smiled and paid. Some holiday purchases are about optimism.

Back at the house, I attempted that evening to recreate the culurgiones. The filling was simple enough - potatoes, pecorino, mint - but the shaping defeated me entirely. My ridges looked like accidental damage. My partner, attempting encouragement, said they tasted lovely regardless. This is the kind of lie long relationships are built upon. We ate them with a tomato sauce I made from tinned tomatoes and garlic, plus that enormous pot finally pressed into service. They were, objectively, a disaster. We finished the lot.

The following days settled into a rhythm of market visits and cooking experiments. I discovered that Sardinian honey is darker and more bitter than I'm used to, perfect with the local ricotta. I learned that fregola, that toasted semolina pasta, requires more liquid than any recipe suggests. I made a fish stew with vermentino wine that actually worked, which I attribute to luck rather than skill. Paolo from three doors down waved at me once, presumably recognising the fool from his balcony.

Our final evening, I attempted porceddu, the suckling pig that Sardinia is famous for. In a holiday rental kitchen. With an oven of uncertain temperature. The result was edible, which is the most I'll claim. We ate it with myrtus liqueur purchased from a farm shop, sitting on the small terrace as the sun went down behind the mountains. The failure of my cooking mattered less than I expected. Perhaps that's what holidays do - lower your standards just enough that enjoyment becomes possible.

We left the remaining pecorino for Paolo, with a note of apology for the door incident. I never saw him again, but I like to imagine him enjoying it, perhaps with a proper culurgione made by someone who knows what they're doing.