I have never been so relieved to see a cottage as I was when we finally stumbled upon the Gorski Kotar Cabar after three hours of increasingly creative navigation. My partner had insisted on using a downloaded map to "avoid roaming charges," which seemed sensible until the map directed us up what I can only describe as a glorified goat track. The small but funny mishap came when I confidently announced we had arrived, leapt from the car with dramatic flair, and marched up to a bewildered local woman tending her vegetable patch. Turns out I had mistaken her shed for our holiday home. She was very kind about it, though I suspect she is still telling that story at dinner.

When we did find the actual cottage, tucked among beech and fir trees with the sort of silence that makes you whisper for no reason, my first thought was not about the view or the fresh mountain air. It was about food. Specifically, how little of it we had brought. The self-catering reality hit me like a cold Slovenian spring. We had packed as if popping to a corner shop in Clapham, not heading to a rural spot where the nearest proper store meant another drive down that goat track.

The cottage kitchen, I should say, was far better equipped than my panic deserved. A proper stove, decent knives, and a fridge that actually worked. My first self-catering cooking attempt that evening was a heroic assembly of tinned beans, the saddest carrots I have ever purchased, and some local sausage we had grabbed from a petrol station. I called it "rustic." My partner called it "a learning experience." We ate it on the small terrace watching darkness settle over the hills, and I have had worse meals in expensive restaurants.

Morning brought revelation in the form of the Cabar market, which operates with charming irregularity in the town centre. I use "town centre" generously here. What Cabar offers, though, is worth any navigational trauma. Local farmers appear with whatever their gardens have produced, priced in a way that makes you feel vaguely guilty. I bought tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, a soft cheese the vendor simply called "our cheese," and honey so thick it barely moved when I tipped the jar. An elderly man sold me mushrooms he had foraged that morning, pointing at trees to indicate where each variety grew. I nodded as if I understood, though I suspect he knew I was bluffing.

That afternoon I attempted mushroom risotto with my market haul. The gentle self-reflection came as I stood stirring, realising I had spent months in London paying premium prices for "artisanal" products that travelled further than I had, while here was something genuinely local, practically given away by people who would never use the word "artisanal" in their lives. My risotto was not perfect. The mushrooms were perhaps slightly undercooked, and I had been too generous with the local wine I opened for "cooking purposes." But sitting there with my partner, eating food that had been growing or grazing within a few miles of where we sat, felt like a small victory over my usual supermarket existence.

The days that followed developed a rhythm I had not expected. Mornings for market scouting or the small bakery that opens early and sells out by nine. Afternoons for increasingly ambitious cooking attempts, including a spectacular failure with buckwheat that I will not describe in detail. Evenings for eating slowly, talking rubbish, and occasionally walking to a nearby viewpoint to digest while pretending we were being healthy.

By the end, I had become one of those tedious people who photographs their dinner. The cottage had become less a base for activities and more a kitchen with a very comfortable bedroom attached. I left with a jar of that honey, some dried mushrooms, and a genuine intention to cook more thoughtfully at home. Whether this intention survives contact with my usual Tesco Express remains to be seen.