I'd barely made it past Bristol Airport security before realising I'd left my Spanish phrasebook on the kitchen table, sandwiched between a half-eaten packet of digestives and a gas bill. Typical. My partner Dave just rolled his eyes and muttered something about "holidaying with a walking disaster." Still, we were off to Catalonia, and nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm for a week of proper Mediterranean eating.

The drive from Reus Airport to our holiday home in Cabra del Camp took about forty minutes, winding through countryside that looked like someone had painted it specifically to make you hungry. Olive groves stretched everywhere, those silvery-green trees practically winking at me, whispering about the oil we'd soon be drizzling on everything. Vineyards climbed the hillsides in neat rows. I wound down the window and swear I could smell tomatoes growing somewhere in the distance.

Our first mishap came before we'd even unpacked. I'd done the online shop for arrival, smugly ticking boxes for "local produce" and "Catalan specialities." The delivery arrived promptly, and I unpacked it with theatrical flair, planning a feast. That's when I discovered I'd ordered seven kilos of calcots instead of the modest bunch I'd intended. For the uninitiated, calcots are those long, sweet spring onions they barbecue outdoors here, and seven kilos could feed a small village during their annual festival. Dave stared at the mountain of alliums and asked, quite reasonably, whether I was planning to open a restaurant or just repel every vampire in Tarragona province.

"We'll manage," I said, with the blind confidence of someone who'd watched approximately one YouTube video about Catalan cooking.

The kitchen at the property saved me, to be honest. Proper gas hob, decent knives, and a terrace with a built-in barbecue that looked like it had seen some serious calcot action over the years. The previous guests had even left behind a half-empty bottle of local vermouth, which I took as a sign from the culinary gods.

Our first evening, we walked to the small supermarket in the village centre. No bigger than a corner shop back in Leeds, but crammed with things I wanted to stuff in my face immediately. Bottles of Priorat wine lined one wall. A deli counter offered fuet, that thin cured sausage that tastes like someone distilled the essence of a Spanish afternoon into pork form. I bought three lengths, because moderation has never been my strong suit. The woman behind the counter spoke rapid Catalan that I mangled with my phrasebook-less Spanish, but she smiled at my enthusiasm and threw in some extra bread, probably pitying the obvious tourist.

That first dinner was simple but felt revolutionary. Bread rubbed with tomato and garlic, drizzled with olive oil so peppery and green it made the supermarket stuff at home taste like vegetable oil. The fuet, sliced thickly because I have no self-control. A salad of tomatoes that actually tasted of something, which feels increasingly miraculous back in Britain. We opened a cheap bottle of local white and sat on the terrace watching the light fade over those vineyard-covered hills.

I attempted pan con tomate the next morning for breakfast and immediately understood why the Catalans are protective of it. My first attempt, I rubbed the tomato too enthusiastically and turned the bread to mush. Dave ate it anyway, because he's kind like that, but I studied my technique and improved. By day three, I had the gentle rubbing motion down, the precise drizzle of oil, the pinch of salt. Small victories.

The local market in Valls, about five miles away, became our Saturday morning pilgrimage. Proper bustling affair, stalls heaving with produce that had been in the ground that morning. I bought mountains of vegetables I couldn't always name, pointing and smiling like a cheerful idiot. The chickpeas from nearby mountains, dried and wrinkled, went into a stew with chorizo that simmered all afternoon and made the whole house smell like heaven. Fresh anchovies, silver and gleaming, got simply grilled with lemon. A wheel of young goat's cheese, soft and tangy, disappeared between us with alarming speed, spread on more of that tomato-rubbed bread.

My calcot experiment happened on our fourth day. I'd watched more videos, read more recipes, felt vaguely prepared. The barbecue roared, I laid those long onions across the grates, and promptly set half of them properly alight. Dave appeared with a jug of water and a look of long-suffering patience. The ones that survived were actually decent, charred outside, sweet and collapsing within, dipped in salvitxada sauce I'd made from roasted tomatoes, almonds, and a splash of that leftover vermouth. We ate them standing at the barbecue, fingers blackened, making satisfied noises that needed no translation.

By week's end, my cooking had improved in direct proportion to my waistline. I'd learned to embrace simplicity, to let good ingredients speak, to stop fussing and overcomplicating. The kitchen had become my favourite room, the terrace my dining room, the local shops my treasure hunts. We finished the last of the fuet on our final morning, packed the remaining calcots into the car for the journey home, and I left that phrasebook on the kitchen table again, this time deliberately, hoping the next visitors might need it less than I did.