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 Todi with three massive suitcases and a hire car that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and regret. I'd punched the address into Google Maps with my usual confidence, marched up to a handsome stone building with green shutters, and spent a solid five minutes jiggling a key that absolutely refused to turn. A very patient Italian woman eventually appeared from the actual correct house two doors down, explained through gestures that we were idiots, and pointed us toward our actual holiday home. Turns out I'd misread a 7 as a 1. Classic me.

The proper place, when we finally found it, was an absolute corker. A proper old stone house with a terrace that looked out over olive groves and rolling hills that seemed to go on forever. The kind of view that makes you immediately want to open a bottle of something and never leave. Which, as it happened, was more or less our plan for the week.

The kitchen was the real star, though. Rustic terracotta floors, wooden beams, and a proper gas hob that looked like it had cooked a thousand Sunday lunches. I stood there imagining myself as some sort of Umbrian domestic goddess, whipping up tagliatelle from scratch and casually reducing sauces while sipping local wine. The reality, as ever, was rather more chaotic.

Our first morning, we walked into Todi proper to find the market. The town itself is gorgeous, all medieval walls and sudden views that make you stop mid-stride like a fool. The market was small but perfect - a handful of stalls in Piazza del Popolo selling vegetables that actually smelled of something, proper crusty bread, and cheese that the vendor let us sample with theatrical generosity. I bought far too much, as is my way, including some enormous porcini mushrooms that I had absolutely no plan for.

That evening I attempted a mushroom risotto. How hard could it be? Very hard, apparently, when you've misjudged the heat on an unfamiliar hob and end up with rice that's somehow both crunchy and gluey. My partner was terribly kind about it, in that way that makes you feel worse. We ate it on the terrace with a bottle of Grechetto, and honestly, the view made up for a lot. I told myself that even bad risotto in Umbria is probably better than good risotto anywhere else. I'm not sure that's true, but it helped.

By day three I'd got the hang of things somewhat. A local woman at the bakery, where I went every morning for cornetti that shattered perfectly, told me about a butcher just off Via Roma. I found it by smell more than anything, and emerged with sausages flavoured with fennel that made the whole car journey back absolutely torturous. Those I managed properly, fried simply with some of the market peppers and a pile of grilled polenta. We ate in silence, which is always the best review.

The self-catering life suited us enormously. Breakfasts of pecorino and honey on that bread, lunches of leftover bits scraped together with tomatoes and olive oil so green it looked radioactive. I even attempted a tart with local figs on our final evening, though the pastry was definitely more "rustic" than intended. We ate it warm with mascarpone, watching the sun drop behind the hills, and I felt genuinely proud of my modest little efforts.

I won't be opening a trattoria anytime soon. But I left Todi with a full stomach, a slightly improved risotto technique, and a deep appreciation for a holiday where the best restaurant is your own terrace.