I have never been so relieved to see a sign for a village with only twelve letters in it. After three hours of driving from Venice Marco Polo airport, most of it spent arguing with a sat nav that insisted "Taglio di Po" was pronounced "Tag-lee-oh dee Poh" in what I can only describe as a passive-aggressive robot voice, I finally spotted the actual road sign. I may have cheered. I may also have been doing forty in a thirty zone at the time. The local polizia, if they were watching, were mercifully invisible.

The mishap came thirty seconds later. I turned into what I thought was the driveway of our holiday let, only to discover I had committed myself to a farm track belonging to an extremely unimpressed-looking goat. Reversing out while the goat maintained direct eye contact was, I will admit, not my finest hour. The actual entrance was ten metres further on and mercifully goat-free. I stumbled out of the car, legs cramped, dignity bruised, and was immediately hit by the smell of rosemary and something else I could not identify but wanted to eat immediately.

The property itself was one of those solid, unhurried Venetian country houses that makes you feel instantly slower just by looking at it. Terracotta tiles, shutters that actually shut, and a kitchen that opened onto a covered terrace where I already knew I would spend most of my waking hours. I dumped my bags and went straight for the cupboards, because I am that person. The owners had left olive oil in a plain glass bottle, coarse salt in a ceramic pot, and a note suggesting I try the Thursday market in nearby Adria for "the proper stuff." I loved them instantly.

The first evening was a disaster of my own making. Determined to cook something authentically Venetian, I had packed a cookbook I had never actually used. The result was polenta that achieved the texture of wet plaster and a baccala mantecato that separated into fish-flavoured oil and something rubbery. I ate it on the terrace with a large amount of the local Soave, which improved matters considerably. The moon came up over the flat agricultural land, the frogs started up in the drainage channels, and I decided that culinary failure in Veneto still beats a ready meal in Croydon.

Friday morning I was at the Adria market before the stalls were fully unpacked. This is the kind of market that makes you want to renounce supermarkets forever. An old woman with hands like twisted vines was selling artichokes still attached to their violent purple flowers. A man shouted the prices of his radicchio varieties as if auctioning racehorses. I bought too much of everything: white asparagus, tiny clams called caparossoli, a hunk of Monte Veronese cheese that weighed approximately the same as a house brick, and salami that the vendor sliced so thin I could see my fingers through it. I also bought a bottle of local olive oil after tasting it on a scrap of bread and experiencing what I can only describe as a religious moment.

Back at the house, I attempted risotto with those clams. The cookbook stayed firmly closed. Instead I watched a YouTube video on my phone, balanced precariously against a olive oil bottle, while a gecko watched from the window frame with what I chose to interpret as encouragement. It worked. The rice had that proper all'onda texture, loose and flowing, and the clams tasted of the actual sea rather than the fish counter. I ate it standing at the kitchen counter in my pants, because I was alone and because I could, and it was one of the best meals I have ever had.

The following days developed a rhythm I quickly became addicted to. Mornings for the bakery in Taglio di Po itself, where the bread came out at half seven and was often sold by eight. Afternoons for attempting things I had no business attempting: bigoli in salsa with anchovies I had to clean myself, a rabbit stew that involved more wine going into me than the pot, a tiramisu that collapsed into something more like a trifle but tasted, according to the neighbour who received the leftovers, "correct." Evenings on that terrace with whatever I had cobbled together, watching the light flatten across the Po delta and drinking more Soave than is technically advisable on a daily basis.

I never did master the local pasta shape called garganelli, despite buying the wooden ridged paddle specifically for the purpose. My attempts looked like something a toddler had chewed and abandoned. But the eggs were so fresh from the farm two kilometres away that the yolks stood up like little orange suns, and even my misshapen efforts tasted of something real.

On my final morning, I made one last trip to the bakery and ate a warm brioche filled with apricot jam while sitting on the bonnet of my car. The goat from my arrival day was visible in its field, still unimpressed. I raised my pastry in salute. It did not respond, which felt fair enough.

I drove back to Venice heavier by several kilos and lighter by something less measurable, the boot of my car stuffed with olive oil and that ridiculous cheese. The sat nav started up with its old nonsense about pronunciation, and I did not even argue. Some battles, like some recipes, are not worth fighting when you have already won something better.