I have never been more grateful for a sat nav than I was driving into Caprino Veronese, partly because the winding roads above Lake Garda demand your full attention, and partly because I had confidently ignored its first three instructions in favour of what I called "a more scenic route." My partner called it something less flattering. The scenic route, it turned out, involved a dead end, a reversing manoeuvre that would have failed a driving test, and a small but humbling encounter with a goat that seemed personally offended by our hire car. We arrived at the villa pink-faced, forty minutes late, and absolutely starving.

The villa itself was a proper charmer. Stone walls, wooden shutters, that particular stillness you only get when you are slightly elevated and surrounded by olive groves. I immediately declared I would cook everything from scratch using local ingredients, live like a true Italian, and probably return home with a cookbook deal. My partner raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.

Our first morning began with a mission to the market in Caprino Veronese itself, which sets up near the centre on certain days with absolutely no consistent pattern I could discern. I had read Tuesday. It was Thursday. We found it anyway by following a woman carrying an empty wicker basket with the purposeful stride of someone who knows exactly where the good tomatoes live. The stalls were modest but glorious. Proper tomatoes, the kind that actually smell of something. Small cucumbers with bumpy skin. Bunches of herbs tied with string. I bought far too much of everything, which is the eternal curse of the British person abroad who has forgotten that vegetables here actually have flavour and therefore you need fewer of them.

That evening I attempted my first proper meal. I had watched no cooking programmes to prepare, which feels relevant. The kitchen was well-equipped, which I took as a sign, and I set about making what I called "a simple Venetian-style fish stew" using fish from a small shop in Garda town. The fish was impeccable. My execution was not. I had not properly accounted for the fact that Italian mussels seem more determined to stay closed than their British counterparts, and my "gentle simmer" became something more aggressive. The result was edible, technically, but involved a lot of chewing and a certain philosophical acceptance. My partner was kind about it. The local wine helped considerably.

Breakfast became my reliable triumph. Fresh bread from a bakery in nearby Spiazzi, proper butter, and apricot jam that tasted like actual apricots rather than orange vague fruit. I ate this on the terrace every morning with coffee that I made in a stovetop pot, feeling genuinely continental until I remembered I was wearing socks with sandals.

The turning point came midweek when I swallowed my pride and asked the villa's managing agent for recommendations. She directed me to a small salumeria in Caprino where the owner, a man called Marco, spoke minimal English and communicated primarily through gestures and samples. He handed me slices of Monte Veronese cheese until I understood the difference between the aged and the fresh. He sold me salami that changed my understanding of what salami could be. He also, crucially, told me how to cook local lake fish without destroying it, which involved less intervention than my nature allows.

That evening I made the simplest possible supper. Good bread, good cheese, good ham, ripe peaches, and wine chilled in the fridge because I am not a purist about these things. We ate outside as the light went soft over the hills, and I finally understood that the food here does not need my ambition. It needs my restraint.

I did attempt one final grand gesture before leaving. I found wild asparagus growing near a path and decided to forage like a proper local. I picked a small bundle, brought it back, and only then thought to verify my identification using the internet. After thirty minutes of increasingly panicked research, I threw it away and walked to the bakery for more bread. Some lessons you learn gently. Others require a small crisis and a cheese-based recovery dinner.

We left Caprino Veronese with full stomachs, a bag of Marco's salami wrapped carefully for the journey, and my cookbook deal firmly abandoned. I did, however, bring home a stovetop coffee pot, and I use it every morning while wearing proper shoes and thinking of that goat, who I choose to believe was wishing us well.