I have never been more grateful for a sat nav in my entire life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle more than I did on the drive from Pisa to Arezzo. Three hours of Tuscan motorways had lulled me into a false sense of competence, so when the robotic voice announced we had arrived at our destination, I confidently swung the hire car through an archway that turned out to be someones driveway. An elderly gent in a flat cap watched me reverse in shame, his expression suggesting this was not the first time he had witnessed British incompetience. The actual entrance to our holiday home was fifty metres further on, hidden behind a hedge that had clearly been designed by someone with a grudge against tourists.

The property itself was a converted farmhouse with views that almost made the humiliation worthwhile. Almost. My partner had the good grace not to mention the driveway incident until we were unpacking, at which point she noted that the key safe code was the same as my driving test pass rate. I chose to focus instead on the kitchen, which was spacious and properly equipped with a decent gas hob and an oven that looked like it had actually been used for cooking rather than just display. This mattered enormously to me because I had grand plans for our week, plans that revolved almost entirely around eating.

Our first morning began with a trip to the Arezzo market, which takes over the Piazza Grande and surrounding streets every Saturday. I had read about this market in a guidebook and arrived with an empty rucksack and unrealistic ambitions. The reality was overwhelming in the best possible way. Stall after stall of pecorino cheese in various stages of ageing, prosciutto sliced to order, bunches of herbs that smelled like every Italian restaurant I had ever loved. I bought far too much, as I always do when confronted with abundance, including a wedge of aged parmesan that cost more than I care to admit and a length of wild boar sausage that I carried around like a trophy.

That evening I attempted my first proper meal, a simple pasta with ragu. Simple, I thought. How hard could it be? The answer, as it turned out, was moderately hard when you have spent years relying on jars of supermarket sauce. I browned the mince with onion and carrot as instructed by a recipe I found on my phone, standing in the corner of the kitchen where the wifi reached. The wine I added was perhaps too generous, both for the pan and for me. The result was edible, which sounds like faint praise but genuinely felt like victory. We ate it on the terrace with bread from a bakery in the old town, watching the light change over the hills.

By midweek I had developed something of a routine. Mornings for coffee and pastries at a bar near the cathedral, where the barman learned my order and delivered it with a nod rather than words. Afternoons for exploring the local shops, particularly a salumeria where the owner let me taste different olive oils on torn pieces of bread until I found one that made me understand why people get emotional about such things. Evenings for cooking experiments that varied wildly in success.

My attempt at ribollita, the traditional Tuscan bread and vegetable soup, was a particular low point. I had bought the right ingredients, I was certain of it, but something went wrong in the execution and the result was a greyish sludge that even hunger could not redeem. We ended up walking into Arezzo proper and finding a trattoria where the ribollita was perfect, thick and earthy and nothing like my disaster. The waiter asked if I wanted to take leftovers home and I laughed too loudly at the suggestion.

The high point came on our final evening, when I finally managed a decent bistecca alla fiorentina. The butcher had talked me through the cut, a thick T-bone from the local Chianina cattle, and I cooked it simply on a grill pan with rosemary and nothing else. It rested properly, which I learned was the secret I had been missing, and when we cut into it the meat was exactly right, charred outside and deep red within. We ate it with white beans dressed in that olive oil I had fallen for, and a tomato salad that needed no dressing beyond salt.

I think what I loved most about that week was how the food anchored me to the place. The market returned every Saturday like a promise. The baker recognised me by the end. My terrible ribollita became a story I told myself, a reminder that trying and failing is still more interesting than not trying at all. We left with the parmesan mostly eaten, the wild boar sausage finally sliced into a proper pasta, and a determination to cook more ambitiously at home, though I suspect the results will taste better in memory than in my actual kitchen.

On the drive back to Pisa I missed the turning for the motorway twice, but somehow it felt appropriate. Some lessons take longer to learn than a week in Tuscany.