I have never been so relieved to see a lake in all my life. After six hours of driving from Pisa airport, my partner and I finally rolled into San Feliciano on Lago Trasimeno, only to realise I had left the entire bag of groceries at the services near Arezzo. Every single item. The pasta, the olive oil, the wine I had carefully selected in a delirium of holiday optimism, all sitting in a trolley bay probably being admired by a confused cleaner.

The property itself was a proper find, one of those low-slung stone numbers with terracotta tiles and shutters that actually function, none of your decorative nonsense. A covered terrace looked directly over the water, and I stood there for a good five minutes just watching a heron do absolutely nothing on a post. My partner, ever practical, was already googling where to buy dinner.

San Feliciano turned out to be the sort of place where food matters in a quiet, unshowy way. No Michelin fanfare, just generations of knowing what to do with a pig and some lentils. We walked down to the harbour, past fishermen mending nets with the patience of men who have never once considered a podcast, and found a small alimentari that smelled immediately of pecorino and cured meat. The woman behind the counter looked at our empty hands with what I can only describe as maternal suspicion. We left with enough to survive: local sausages, a wedge of aged cheese, bread that was still warm, and a bottle of Grechetto that cost less than a London coffee.

That first evening we attempted nothing ambitious. Just sliced sausage, cheese, bread torn rather than cut because we had not yet worked out which drawer contained the knives. We ate on the terrace as the lake turned from blue to grey to something approaching silver, and I decided that leaving the original shopping in Arezzo was perhaps the best mistake I had made in months.

The next morning I was determined to cook properly. The property had a decent kitchen, nothing fancy but properly equipped, and I had spotted a market in nearby Magione. We drove over with the confidence of people who absolutely did not need another map, got lost twice in streets designed for donkeys, and arrived as the stalls were being dismantled. A man selling the last of his porcini took pity on us, or perhaps recognised desperation, and sold us a paper bag of them at a price that felt almost apologetic. We also acquired tomatoes that smelled like tomatoes, a bunch of sage from a woman who grew it in her garden, and eggs with actual dirt on them.

Back at the house I attempted a frittata with the mushrooms and sage, convinced this would be simple rustic perfection. It was not. I had the heat wrong, or the pan wrong, or possibly the entire philosophy wrong. What emerged was edible but deeply humble, a dish that knew its limitations. My partner, who has the diplomatic skills of a UN negotiator, declared it "interesting" and ate two portions. We opened another bottle, this time a Sangiovese from the hills behind Perugia, and the frittata somehow improved with each glass.

The following days developed a rhythm I had not expected. Mornings for the small market in San Feliciano itself, where I learned to arrive before nine or face the disappointment of watching someone else buy the last of the fresh ricotta. Afternoons for cooking experiments of varying success. I made a tomato sauce that genuinely worked, all garlic and basil and reduction until it clung to pasta properly. I made a lentil soup that did not, entirely because I had confused two types of dried pulse and created something with the texture of wet gravel.

One evening we walked to a trattoria on the harbour, partly for research, partly because I needed to remember what food was supposed to taste like. The grilled lake fish was extraordinary in its simplicity, just oil and lemon and heat, and I spent the entire meal making mental notes I have since forgotten. What stayed with me was the owner's recommendation for a butcher in Passignano, where we drove the next day and bought pork chops thick enough to require actual courage.

Those chops became my crowning achievement. Brined briefly, seared hard, finished with rosemary and garlic butter, served with roasted peppers from the market. We ate them as the sun went down and I felt, briefly, like a person who understood something about life. The Grechetto helped, obviously. Everything helped, really. The mistakes, the small discoveries, the woman in the alimentari who eventually smiled when we entered.

On our last morning I made one final market run, bought bread and cheese for the journey, and left the bag on the kitchen counter. Some patterns, apparently, do not change. We retrieved it laughing, drove away full of coffee and the particular sadness of leaving a place where you have learned to feed yourself properly. I still think about that terrace, that lake, the heron on his post. And I think about the frittata, which taught me more about humility than any cooking show ever managed.