I should have known the holiday was going to be an adventure when I managed to get my hire car stuck in a narrow lane barely wide enough for a goat, let alone a Fiat Panda with a boot full of supermarket provisions from Dubrovnik Airport. Three locals, two cigarettes, and one deeply embarrassing phone call to the villa owner later, I finally rolled up to the Herceg Novi Sasovici with slightly less dignity than I'd hoped for.

The villa itself, perched on the hillside with views across the Bay of Kotor, immediately made the humiliation worthwhile. But I was starving, and more importantly, I had plans. Big, ambitious, slightly delusional plans about cooking proper Montenegrin food in that outdoor kitchen with its brick barbecue and wood-fired oven. I'd watched videos. I'd made lists. I was going to be the sort of traveller who really immersed myself in local cuisine.

My first morning began with a triumphant march to the nearby market in Herceg Novi town, roughly ten minutes down the winding coastal road. The green market, as everyone seems to call it, sprawls near the old town with stalls of tomatoes that actually smell like tomatoes, bundles of fresh herbs, and cheese vendors who let you sample before buying. I purchased prsut, the local air-dried ham, a hunk of Njeguski sir that the seller assured me was "very strong, very good," and more vegetables than two people could reasonably consume in a fortnight. I felt like a conqueror. I felt like a local. I felt, in retrospect, completely out of my depth.

That evening I attempted to cook fish on the brick barbecue. The villa's outdoor kitchen is genuinely lovely, all rustic stone and proper cooking space, and I had fresh orada from a harbour-side seller in Igalo. What I did not have was any real understanding of how hot a wood fire actually gets, nor how quickly sea bream transforms from "perfectly cooked" to "charred beyond recognition." My partner watched in silence as I performed emergency surgery on dinner, scraping blackened skin and pretending the dry flesh beneath was exactly as intended. We ate it with excessive amounts of the local Vranac wine, which helped considerably.

The following morning, defeated but not broken, I walked down to the promenade and ate burek for breakfast at a small cafe near the harbour. Flaky, greasy, filled with cheese and spinach, absolutely no effort required on my part whatsoever. It was magnificent. I had another. I began to reconsider my entire approach.

The pubs and konobas of Herceg Novi Riviera became my education. Konoba Stari Grad, tucked into the old town's stone streets, served me a fish broth that tasted of the sea in a way my barbecued efforts never approached. The owner, seeing my obvious interest, explained how his wife makes it with nothing more than rockfish, olive oil, garlic, and patience. I nodded wisely, knowing full well I possessed none of the above in sufficient quantities.

I discovered that many local places don't really distinguish between pub and restaurant. You wander in for a drink, end up eating, stay for hours. At a waterfront spot near Zelenika, I spent an entire afternoon drinking Niksicko pivo and eating plates of prazenica, fried cheese that stretches improbably and tastes of smoke and salt. The barman taught me the word "zivjeli" for cheers, which I now say with entirely unwarranted confidence.

My finest cooking moment came unexpectedly. After another market trip, this time with more realistic expectations, I simply grilled those same excellent tomatoes with garlic and olive oil, tore up some of that robust Njeguski sir over the top, and served it with bread from the bakery near the ferry terminal. No wood fire. No fish to destroy. Just good ingredients left mostly alone on the villa's simpler gas hob. We ate it on the terrace as the sun went down over the bay, and I finally understood something about this place. The food here doesn't need a performance. It needs decent ingredients, a bit of restraint, and someone willing to let the landscape do the actual work.

I still visited the market most mornings. Still ate at konobas most evenings. Still drank too much local wine and learned which pubs had the best atmosphere after dark. But I stopped trying to prove something with elaborate cooking, and started simply enjoying what was there. Though I did attempt one final barbecue on our last night, and I'm pleased to report the cevapi sausages were only slightly cremated. Progress, of a sort.