I have never been so happy to see a Tesco bag in my life, and I do not even shop at Tesco. There it was, crumpled in the boot of our hire car, containing three sorry-looking digestive biscuits and a half-empty bottle of water. This was our emergency snack stash, and it had just become the most important item we owned.

The journey from Malaga Airport had started well enough. We collected the car, I confidently declined the sat-nav upgrade because "I have got Google Maps, thank you very much," and we set off toward Mijas Costa with the sun on our faces and dreams of tapas dancing in our heads. Twenty minutes later, Google Maps decided we absolutely needed to explore every single roundabout in Fuengirola. Twice. By the time we found the urbanisation, I had developed a twitch every time I saw a blue circular sign.

Then came the mishap. In my wisdom, I had packed our self-catering essentials in what I thought was a brilliant system: cool bag for perishables, tote for dry goods, another bag for "miscellaneous." The miscellaneous bag, containing olive oil, sea salt, and a jar of pimenton that I had specifically bought for "authentic Andalusian cooking," had been left on the kitchen counter in Manchester. I realised this approximately four seconds after shutting the boot at the airport, but denial is a powerful thing.

So there we were, standing in a lovely kitchen with terracotta tiles and more cupboard space than my flat, holding three digestives and a dream. The nearest supermarket was a Mercadona ten minutes away, but it was Sunday evening, and I had that Sunday-evening-in-Spain feeling. You know the one. The quiet. The shuttered shops. The sudden realisation that your plan to "just pop out for supplies" was hopelessly British.

We did find an open petrol station with a sad sandwich selection. I ate a bocadillo de tortilla that tasted of regret and fluorescent lighting. My partner had some crisps that claimed to be ham-flavoured but tasted of pink. We sat on our terrace, watching the last light fade over the hills, and I had my first moment of gentle self-reflection. Here I was, someone who had spent weeks researching paella techniques, who had watched YouTube tutorials on gambas al ajillo, who had genuinely used the phrase "I want to eat like a local." And my first meal in Andalusia was a petrol station sandwich.

The morning brought salvation and a Mercadona that opened at nine. I have never been so excited about a supermarket in my life. The fish counter alone nearly made me weep. Fresh boquerones gleaming like silver, prawns still smelling of the sea, whole sea bream with eyes that judged my cooking abilities. I bought everything. I had no plan, no recipes, just enthusiasm and a trolley that kept veering left.

Back at the villa, I attempted my first proper Spanish breakfast. Pan con tomate, I thought. How hard can it be? The answer, I discovered, is moderately hard if you have never actually seen it made properly and your tomato-grating technique owes more to anger than skill. I produced something that looked like a crime scene on toast. It tasted magnificent anyway, because the tomatoes were actual tomatoes, sun-ripened and proper, not the watery disappointments I was used to.

The Tuesday market in Fuengirola became my church. I went every week without fail, developing a serious olive addiction and a rapport with a cheese man who found my attempts at Spanish endearing enough to give me extra samples. I learned that "un poquito" is a dangerous phrase when applied to cured meat. I once came home with enough jamon to concern a cardiologist, plus some mysterious sausages that I still cannot properly identify but that made incredible patatas bravas.

My cooking improved, slowly. A proper paella pan helped, purchased from a hardware shop in La Cala where the owner explained the technique with the patience of a man who has watched many British people ruin rice. I learned that socarrat is not a myth but a genuine thing that happens when you stop fidgeting with the pan and let it be. My first successful attempt, with rabbit and snails from the market, felt like a genuine achievement. We ate it on the terrace as the sun went down, and I may have got emotional about carbohydrates.

The villa's barbecue saw heavy use. Sardines, because this is the Costa del Sol and that is what you do. I burned the first batch spectacularly, creating something that resembled fish-shaped charcoal. The second batch, watched like a hawk, were perfect. We ate them with our fingers, tearing soft bread through the oily juices, lemon dripping down our wrists. No cutlery, no ceremony, just the sound of the grill cooling and distant dogs barking.

By week two, I had a routine. Morning coffee on the terrace, planning the day's meals like military operations. Market mornings for fresh produce, afternoon prep, evening cooking with a glass of local verdejo that cost embarrassingly little. I made gazpacho that actually worked, the secret being patience with the straining and more sherry vinegar than I initially thought wise. I attempted tortilla de patatas approximately seven times before achieving the correct wobble. Each failure was eaten anyway, because eggs and potatoes are forgiving, and because we were on holiday and everything tastes better with enough olive oil.

The digestive biscuits remained uneaten in their bag, a reminder of humbler beginnings. I found them on our last morning and laughed. Three weeks of market discoveries, of burnt fingers and perfect socarrat, of eating grilled octopus on the beach at La Cala and declaring it the best thing I had ever tasted. All starting from petrol station sandwiches and a profound underestimation of Spanish Sunday trading hours.

We left the remaining olive oil, the half-empty pimenton I had eventually bought, a note for the next guests about the cheese man at the market. I took home three kilos of almonds from the hills above Mijas, a paella pan that barely fit in the suitcase, and the certain knowledge that I would never again travel without checking the kitchen counter. Twice.