Getting to our Gubbio holiday let was meant to be straightforward, but I managed to turn a simple drive from Perugia Airport into something of a pantomime. The sat-nav had other ideas, sending us up a gravel track so narrow that I had to fold in the wing mirrors and hold my breath. We finally rattled up to what I thought was our place, only to find a very confused Italian farmer and his equally baffled sheep. I'd put "Gubbio" into the search bar rather than the actual address. Classic me. After twenty minutes of apologetic hand gestures and a three-point turn that involved reversing into an olive grove, we found the proper road and the proper house. I could already feel my stomach rumbling with stress-hunger.

The property itself was a proper stone farmhouse affair, all terracotta tiles and wooden shutters, with a kitchen that immediately made me want to cook something ambitious. There was a proper gas hob, a decent-sized oven, and most importantly, a covered terrace with a long wooden table that practically begged for long lunches. I dumped the bags and headed straight for the nearest shop before it shut for the afternoon, because nothing says "holiday disaster" quite like arriving hungry in rural Italy with no food in the house.

The local alimentari in the village below was a revelation. Tiny, family-run, and absolutely packed with things I wanted to eat immediately. I came away with far more than planned: a fat round of pecorino, strings of dried sausages hanging from the counter, fat porcini mushrooms that smelled of the forest, and a bottle of local Sagrantino that the shopkeeper insisted on with such force that refusal felt impossible. I also bought pasta, obviously. You don't self-cater in Umbria without pasta. It would be like going to Yorkshire and ignoring the puddings.

That first evening, I attempted something simple. Or so I thought. The plan was cacio e pepe, which every food writer insists is "so easy." It is not easy. I broke the pecorino sauce. Twice. The first attempt went grainy and horrible, the second seized up into a rubbery mess. My partner watched in silence, sipping the wine, wisely saying nothing. Third time lucky, with the heat lower and the pasta water more generous, it finally came together into something silky and properly peppery. We ate it on the terrace as the light faded over the hills, and I felt disproportionately proud of myself. Sometimes the simplest things demand the most humility.

The morning market in Gubbio's upper town became our ritual. Up early, coffee in a tiny bar first, standing at the counter like the locals, then wandering between stalls heaped with produce. I bought artichokes the size of my fist, still with their purple-tinged leaves, and bunches of wild asparagus that an old chap had foraged that morning. There were fat white beans from Lake Trasimeno, local lentils, and olive oil sold in recycled bottles with handwritten labels. I spent far too long choosing between two types of honey, finally buying both after the beekeeper let me taste them from tiny wooden spoons.

Back at the house, I cooked with more confidence as the days passed. A slow braise of pork with those artichokes and white wine, the wild asparagus simply grilled and dressed with lemon and more of that olive oil. I made a proper ragu one rainy afternoon, letting it bubble away for hours while I read a terrible novel and occasionally stirred. The kitchen filled with the smell of it, and I understood finally why people rave about cooking in Italy. The ingredients do half the work for you. You mainly need to avoid ruining them.

My most ambitious attempt was a tart with local ricotta and sour cherries from a jar I'd found at the back of the alimentari. The pastry was shop-bought, I'll admit. Some things are best left to professionals, and my track record with pastry is patchy at best. The filling was simple and lovely though, sweet and sharp, and we ate it warm with our fingers standing at the kitchen counter, too impatient to find plates.

By the end of the week, the fridge held a chaotic collection of half-used cheeses, wilting herbs, and leftover wine. The kitchen bore the marks of enthusiastic amateur cooking: a stained wooden board, a knife that needed sharpening, a splatter of tomato sauce on the wall I'd keep meaning to wipe. I left the house feeling genuinely sad to say goodbye to that terrace, to those markets, to the particular pleasure of cooking slowly with good things and no particular hurry. We drove away with a boot full of olive oil and dried lentils, and I spent the first hour of the journey home planning what I'd make with them, already half-decided on coming back.