I have never been brilliant with directions, and my first attempt at finding our holiday let in Luanco proved that beyond doubt. After a solid two hours of driving from Asturias Airport through some genuinely stunning green countryside, I managed to miss the turning not once but twice, distracted both times by the sight of locals carrying what looked like entire hams into their houses. By the time I finally pulled up outside our stone-built terraced cottage, I was starving, slightly sweaty, and in absolutely no mood to cook anything more complicated than toast.

The kitchen, as it turned out, was going to be my making or my undoing that week. Compact would be the polite word, though charmingly so, with terracotta tiles underfoot and enough pots and pans to suggest serious culinary intentions. I had packed a Jamie Oliver cookbook I had never opened, full of noble plans for evening meals of slow-cooked stews and fresh seafood. Reality arrived swiftly. My first attempt at a tortilla espanola ended up more scrambled egg than sliceable spectacle, and I ate it standing at the counter with a glass of local cider, pretending this had been the plan all along.

Breakfast became my reliable triumph. The small supermarket near the harbour stocked excellent crusty bread, proper butter, and tomatoes that actually tasted of something. I took to walking down each morning, past the fishing boats and the old stone church, to collect supplies. The woman behind the counter started recognising me by day three, and by day five she was recommending cheeses without my asking. That is the sort of small-town hospitality that makes self-catering feel less like catering and more like being temporarily adopted.

The market in Luanco itself, held on certain mornings near the promenade, became my weekend highlight. I would wander between stalls heaped with fabada beans, chorizo in intimidating lengths, and fresh fish laid out on ice with eyes still glassy and accusatory. I bought spider crab once, carried it home in triumph, then spent twenty minutes on my phone working out how on earth to prepare it. The resulting effort was messy, slightly dangerous, and genuinely delicious, eaten with fingers and a great deal of cider while my partner laughed at my determined expression.

Lunch was invariably out, a necessary break from my own cooking. There is a particular pleasure in eating grilled sardines somewhere overlooking the Cantabrian Sea, knowing you have no washing up to face afterwards. I became devoted to a small place near the harbour where the menu changed according to what the boats had brought in that morning. The owner spoke minimal English and my Spanish extends to ordering beer and apologising, so our exchanges were largely gestural and always friendly. I ate octopus I would never have ordered elsewhere, and rice dishes studded with clams that tasted properly of the sea.

Evenings were for my culinary experiments, growing gradually more ambitious as the week progressed. A proper fabada asturiana, that rich bean stew with chorizo and black pudding, simmered for hours one rainy afternoon while I read on the sofa and felt thoroughly pleased with myself. The kitchen smelled incredible for days afterwards. I attempted arroz con leche too, having eaten a superb version in a local restaurant and foolishly believing I could replicate it. The result was edible, which is the kindest thing one can say, and I quietly returned to buying dessert from the bakery on the corner thereafter.

What I learned, I suppose, is that self-catering in a place like Luanco is not about perfection. It is about wandering to the shops with no real plan, letting what looks good dictate the evening's meal, and accepting that some attempts will fail spectacularly. The cider helps with this acceptance, as does the knowledge that excellent food is never far away if one's own efforts collapse entirely. I came home with a bag of beans, a vague recipe for that fabada, and a newfound respect for anyone who can flip a tortilla without it falling apart. Some skills, I have accepted, require more than one holiday to master.