I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to get my hire car stuck in a petrol station forecourt before even reaching Chiclana de la Frontera. There I was, sweating profusely in thirty-degree heat, trying to reverse out of a pump bay while a queue of very patient Spaniards watched me perform what can only be described as a seventeen-point turn. My partner sat in the passenger seat making unhelpful comments about my spatial awareness, which I feel was rather rich coming from someone who once got lost in our own garden centre.

By the time we finally pulled up at our villa on the outskirts of Chiclana, I was ready for a cold drink and a bit of a lie down. But stepping through that front door changed everything. The place had one of those proper Spanish courtyards, all terracotta tiles and potted plants, with a kitchen that looked out onto a pool shimmering in the afternoon sun. I immediately forgave myself the petrol station debacle. This was going to be a week of serious eating, and I was absolutely ready for it.

The first morning, we headed to the Mercado Municipal de Abastos in the town centre. I have a terrible habit of getting overexcited in foreign food markets and buying far more than any reasonable person could consume. This time was no exception. I came away with enough tomatoes to feed a small village, several varieties of olive that I could not properly identify despite the stallholder's patient explanations, a hunk of manchego cheese the size of my head, and some chorizo that smelled so good I nearly ate it raw in the car park. My partner raised an eyebrow at my haul but wisely said nothing. He has learned that my market enthusiasm is not to be dampened.

Back at the villa, I attempted my first proper Spanish lunch. The kitchen was well-equipped, which gave me dangerous confidence. I decided to make a tortilla espanola, because how hard could it be? Eggs, potatoes, onions. Simple. Except I got distracted by the pool, left the potatoes on too long, and ended up with something that was less "authentic regional cuisine" and more "crispy potato accident." We ate it anyway, sitting outside with cold beers, and honestly it tasted fine after the third beer. The local bread from a panaderia near the market more than made up for my culinary shortcomings.

That evening we walked into Chiclana proper and found a little tapas bar near Plaza Mayor. I have never been anywhere that understands the art of small plates quite like Andalusia. We ate grilled prawns with garlic, little fried fish called pescaito frito, and some kind of spinach and chickpea stew that I have been trying to recreate ever since. The waiter seemed amused by my attempts to order in Spanish, gently correcting my pronunciation of "jamon" with what I can only describe as kindly patience.

The next few days settled into a glorious rhythm of market visits and cooking experiments. I discovered that buying fish from the market in Chiclana requires a certain boldness I do not naturally possess. Pointing at a whole sea bream and trying to communicate that yes, I would like it cleaned but no, I do not need the head removed, involved more hand gestures than I am comfortable using in public. The fishmonger was wonderfully good-natured about it though, and I returned to the villa triumphant with my properly prepared catch.

My attempt to cook that sea bream on the villa's barbecue was, I am proud to say, rather more successful than my tortilla. I stuffed it with lemon and herbs from a little garden patch I found at the back of the property, and we ate it with a simple salad of those overenthusiastically purchased tomatoes. They were the best tomatoes I have ever tasted, sweet and properly flavourful in a way that makes you slightly angry about supermarket produce back home.

Breakfast became a particular pleasure. I would wander down to a nearby cafe for fresh churros on alternate days, and on the others we ate simply at the villa - thick toasted bread rubbed with tomato and garlic, drizzled with olive oil that was apparently pressed not far from Chiclana itself. I brought a bottle home and have been using it sparingly, like some kind of liquid gold, saving it for special occasions.

One afternoon we found a little venta, one of those traditional roadside restaurants, where I ate oxtail stew so tender it barely required chewing. The owner came over to check we were enjoying it, and I responded with such enthusiastic praise that she brought us complimentary slices of tocino de cielo, a sort of egg yolk custard that was absurdly rich and sweet. I waddled back to the car genuinely wondering if I might need to be rolled to the pool later.

By the end of the week, my partner had taken to calling me "the market menace" due to my continued inability to buy sensible quantities. Our final visit to the mercado saw me loading up on spices, more olive oil, and some local honey to take home. The same stallholder who had sold me those first mysterious olives recognised me and laughed, packing everything up with the air of someone who knew exactly what they were dealing with.

Driving away from Chiclana, slightly heavier and considerably happier, I caught myself already planning what I would cook when we got back. The petrol station forecourt held no fears for me now. I had faced down Spanish fishmongers, survived my own cooking, and discovered that a simple tomato, treated with respect, can be a revelation. Some holidays change your perspective. This one changed my kitchen.