I have never been more grateful for a sat nav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey from Venice Marco Polo to our holiday home in Monselice should have taken forty-five minutes, but somehow I managed to turn a straightforward drive through the Veneto flatlands into a ninety-minute tour of every agricultural track between Padua and the Colli Euganei. The low point came when I confidently steered our hire car down what I insisted was a "scenic shortcut" only to find myself face to face with a very unimpressed farmer, his tractor, and approximately four hundred chickens who had absolutely no intention of moving. My partner sat in the passenger seat making that particular face she saves for my special moments of navigational genius.

When we finally found the property, tucked into a quiet residential corner of Monselice with the hills rising behind it, I was ready to abandon driving forever and take up walking everywhere like a medieval pilgrim. But then we stepped inside, and more importantly, we stepped into the kitchen, and suddenly my sat nav shame began to fade. The kitchen was one of those gloriously practical Italian spaces, all tiled surfaces and serious cooking intent, with a proper gas hob and enough counter space to actually attempt something ambitious. I immediately started planning meals in my head, which is always dangerous.

Our first morning, we walked into Monselice proper to find the weekly market setting up in the centro storico. I have a theory that you can judge any Italian town by its market, and this one passed with flying colours. The fruit and vegetable stalls were piled with produce that actually smelled of something, peaches so fragrant they seemed almost indecent, tomatoes still warm from the vine, zucchini with their flowers attached like cheerful yellow hats. I bought far too much of everything, as I always do when confronted with Italian market produce, and had to be physically steered away from a cheese stall by my partner before I bankrupted us on aged Asiago and fresh ricotta.

That afternoon I attempted my first proper self-catering effort, a simple pasta with zucchini flowers, ricotta, and lemon zest. The kitchen in the property was a joy to cook in, everything within logical reach, none of that rental kitchen nonsense where you need a degree in engineering to work the hob. I fried the flowers in a little olive oil until they were crisp and golden, folded through the ricotta, and felt genuinely proud of myself. The pride lasted until I realised I had forgotten to buy pasta. A quick dash to a nearby alimentari saved dinner, and I returned with fresh tagliatelle and a renewed sense of my own fallibility.

The alimentari became my second home over the following days. It was one of those wonderful Italian food shops where the owner treats your purchases with the gravity of international diplomacy, carefully selecting your prosciutto, slicing it to his own exacting standards, and wrapping it with the kind of care usually reserved for museum pieces. I never quite mastered the etiquette of when to pay, hovering awkwardly with my wallet while he finished his precise work, but he was patient with my tourist manners.

We ate breakfast on the property's terrace most mornings, simple affairs of coffee, fresh bread from the bakery we discovered near the castle, and whatever fruit had tempted me at the market the day before. The coffee situation required some negotiation, as the property had a moka pot and I have the kind of relationship with moka pots that can only be described as volatile. My first attempt produced something that tasted of bitterness and regret. My third attempt was genuinely drinkable. By day five I was making coffee with the casual confidence of someone who had definitely not had four previous disasters that week.

One evening, feeling particularly pleased with my developing Italian culinary skills, I decided to attempt risotto. I had bought proper Carnaroli rice from the market, good stock, local wine, the works. I stood at that kitchen hob stirring with the dedication of a man who had read somewhere that you must never stop stirring, not for a second, not for anything. My arm ached. My partner offered to take over and I snapped at her like a territorial chef, which is not my finest moment and one I have since apologised for. The risotto was good, not exceptional, but good. The real discovery was that I had bought far too much rice and would be eating variations on risotto for the remainder of the holiday. There is a lesson there about market enthusiasm versus practical quantities, but I doubt I will learn it.

The property's barbecue saw action on our final evening, a simple grill of local sausages and vegetables, eaten outside as the light faded over the Colli Euganei. I had bought some of that aged Asiago after all, and we finished with cheese and the last of a bottle of red from a vineyard we had visited nearby. I thought about my sat nav failure on arrival, the chickens, the farmer's expression. I thought about my risotto obsession, my moka pot education, my inability to buy sensible quantities of rice. Travel does not smooth out your rough edges, I decided. It just gives them new and more interesting settings. We would be driving back to Venice tomorrow, and this time I would let my partner navigate. Some lessons, at least, I am capable of learning.