I have never been so relieved to see a gravel driveway in my life. Three hours of winding Tuscan roads, one very questionable overtaking manoeuvre by a Fiat Panda, and a spectacular argument with our hire car's sat nav had left me in serious need of a sit down and probably a small glass of something. The final indignity came as we pulled up to Poveromo, our stone farmhouse just outside Montaione, when I confidently opened what I believed to be the front door and found myself face to face with a very startled-looking washing machine in the utility room. The actual entrance was, naturally, the other door three metres to the left. My partner found this hilarious. I did not, though I am prepared to admit now, several days later, that perhaps my navigational confidence is not always warranted.

The kitchen, once we located it properly, immediately made me feel better about life. A vast oak table dominated the room, with terracotta tiles underfoot and heavy wooden beams overhead that looked older than some countries. I ran my hand along the counter and announced my intention to cook everything in sight. My partner raised an eyebrow. This was fair. My culinary history includes a memorable incident with a spaghetti bolognese that the fire brigade still mention in hushed tones.

Our first morning began with a mission to the weekly market in Montaione, which the property's welcome folder described as "a short drive." This proved accurate if you consider twenty minutes of increasingly narrow lanes, one encounter with a tractor that genuinely did not care about our schedule, and a brief period where I questioned whether our Fiat would fit between two stone walls as "short." The market itself, when we finally arrived, was magnificent chaos. Stall after stall of pecorino cheese in various stages of aged intensity, cured meats that smelled of smoke and patience, and tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, which in my experience is rarer than it should be.

I purchased with the enthusiasm of a man who had not eaten a proper meal in approximately sixteen hours. A wedge of cheese here, a length of finocchiona there, some fresh pasta that the stallholder assured me was made that morning by her sister. I also bought a bottle of local olive oil after the producer let me taste it on a crust of bread, and I am not exaggerating when I say it made me slightly emotional. My partner had to guide me away before I bought the entire stock.

Back at Poveromo, I set about my first proper self-catering attempt with the focus of a man defusing a bomb. The kitchen was well-equipped, which is to say it had actual sharp knives and pans that did not have mysterious blackened patches, both luxuries in my holiday cooking experience. I made a simple pasta with the market tomatoes, garlic, basil, and that extraordinary olive oil. It took me approximately twelve minutes. It was, without question, one of the best things I have ever eaten. My partner said so, unprompted, which has happened perhaps four times in our entire relationship.

Emboldened by success, I attempted something more ambitious the following evening. The property's outdoor brick barbecue became my domain, and I grilled local sausages and vegetables with a confidence that was, in retrospect, entirely unearned. The sausages were perfect. The vegetables were slightly cremated on one side and practically raw on the other, a feat of inconsistent heat management that I blamed on the wood rather than my own inattention. We ate them anyway, outside on the terrace as the light faded over the vineyards, and they tasted wonderful because context is everything and wine helps considerably.

The local butcher in Montaione became something of a regular haunt. He spoke no English and my Italian extends to approximately seventeen words, twelve of which are food-related, but we developed a system of pointing and appreciative noises that served us well. I returned with various cuts I could not always identify, determined to expand my repertoire. One evening I attempted a slow-cooked beef dish that required several hours of gentle simmering. I may have become slightly obsessive about checking it, opening the oven with the frequency of a nervous parent. The result was worth every anxious moment, falling apart at the touch of a fork, rich with wine and herbs from the small garden I had discovered growing wild at the property's edge.

I also discovered that rosemary grows absolutely everywhere around Poveromo, including in cracks in the stone walls and what appeared to be a former flowerbed now entirely colonised by the stuff. I used it with abandon, sometimes appropriately, sometimes with what my partner gently suggested was "enthusiasm exceeding restraint." A potato dish I attempted was essentially rosemary with some potato, rather than the reverse. We ate it anyway. When in Tuscany, I told myself, though I suspect actual Tuscans exercise more moderation.

The property's welcome book mentioned a bakery in nearby San Vivaldo, and one morning we made the pilgrimage for fresh bread. What arrived back at the farmhouse was a loaf with a crust so satisfying it practically announced itself when torn, and an interior so soft and fragrant that I ate an embarrassing amount simply with butter and honey, standing at the kitchen counter in my pyjamas at ten in the morning. This became a ritual. I am not sorry.

By our final evening, I had progressed from nervous beginner to someone who genuinely understood why the kitchen at Poveromo felt like the heart of the house. I prepared a last meal of grilled vegetables that were actually cooked evenly, a simple white bean soup with that market pecorino grated over the top, and bread from my now-beloved bakery. We ate slowly, finishing the last of a local Chianti, and I felt that particular satisfaction that comes from having fed yourself well in a beautiful place. My partner caught my eye across the table and raised a glass. "The washing machine room was a good start," he said. I laughed, because it absolutely was, and because sometimes the wrong door leads you exactly where you need to be.