I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I packed the sat nav in the glove box and promptly forgot which glove box. We were somewhere past Trieste, winding through Slovenian countryside that looked like someone had painted it for a postcard, and I was rummaging around like a squirrel hunting for its winter stash. My partner sat there with that particular expression of patience worn thin, until I produced the device with a flourish that knocked my sunglasses into the footwell. Classic start.

The approach to Koper Smarje itself was far more graceful than my packing skills deserved. Olive groves terraced into hillsides, the occasional vineyard clinging to slopes that looked frankly too steep for sensible agriculture. You could smell the sea before you saw it, that particular briny freshness that makes you immediately hungry for fish you have not even encountered yet.

Our holiday home sat in that perfect sweet spot between countryside quiet and coastal convenience. I dumped the bags with the enthusiasm of someone who had been in a car for six hours and immediately headed for the kitchen to assess self-catering potential. This is always my first move, and I am not ashamed. The kitchen was properly equipped, not one of those holiday rentals where you get a blunt knife and a pan that has seen things. I opened the cupboards with the reverence of an archaeologist discovering a tomb, and found actual decent cookware. The holiday gods were smiling.

The local market in Koper became my morning ritual. I am not a morning person by nature, but the promise of fresh produce dragged me out of bed with unusual enthusiasm. The market traders tolerated my butchered attempts at Slovenian with good humour, and my pointing and smiling technique proved surprisingly effective. I came back with tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, which feels like a small miracle when you are used to supermarket offerings. There was local prsut, air-dried ham that my partner kept sneaking slices from when she thought I was not looking. I was always looking. The cheese stall alone nearly broke my budget, with aged varieties that the vendor insisted I sample until I felt slightly guilty and bought far more than planned.

My first cooking attempt was meant to be simple. Fresh pasta with market vegetables, nothing ambitious. I got distracted by the view from the kitchen window, olive trees and distant sea, and slightly overcooked the garlic into a state of bitter charcoal. We ate it anyway, sitting on the terrace with local wine that cost embarrassingly little for its quality, and laughed about my culinary arrogance. The second attempt went better. The third, I would actually serve to people I liked.

The local konobas, those traditional taverns, became our research trips. I told myself I was studying technique, learning local flavours to recreate at home. This was partially true. Mostly I wanted to eat brodet, that rich fish stew, and figure out if I could possibly make it without poisoning anyone. The version I tried in a tiny place near the coast, sitting on plastic chairs with my feet in the dust, was so good I nearly wept into my wine glass. The owner spoke no English, I spoke essentially no Slovenian, and we communicated through the universal language of enthusiastic eating noises.

Back at the house, I became obsessed with recreating a simple dish of grilled squid with potatoes. The fish market in Koper provided squid so fresh it practically introduced itself. My first attempt, I overcooked it into rubber bands suitable for office stationery. My second, I undercooked it into something that would have alarmed a food safety inspector. By the fourth attempt, served with potatoes roasted in local olive oil and herbs from a pot on the terrace, I achieved something I would not be embarrassed to feed the konoba owner. Progress.

Evenings settled into a rhythm of cooking, eating, drinking wine that grew more confident with each passing day. We ate outside until the light faded completely, discussing nothing in particular, watching the swallows perform their evening acrobatics. I learned that self-catering is not about perfection but about the pleasure of attempt, of market discoveries, of meals that go slightly wrong and become stories anyway.

On our final morning, I made one last market trip for bread still warm from the oven, cheese to take home, and tomatoes I ate straight from the bag like apples. I will not tell you about the time I dropped an entire container of olive oil on the kitchen floor, because some holiday mishaps are best forgotten, and because I have already confessed enough culinary sins for one trip.

We left with bags heavier than we arrived, full of cheese and oil and that particular contentment that comes from feeding yourself well in a beautiful place. My squid technique still needs work, honestly. But I have the rest of my life to practice, and the memory of that perfect holiday kitchen to aim for.