I have never been so relieved to see a set of keys in a plastic box as I was when we finally rocked up to our Santa Susanna holiday let. The drive from Girona airport had been straightforward enough, but my insistence on "popping into a supermarket for essentials" had turned into a forty-minute expedition involving a car park I could not exit, a trolley that needed a euro coin I did not possess, and a bag of oranges that burst open in the boot and rolled under the spare wheel. I stood there in the Catalan afternoon heat, fishing citrus out of crevices and wondering why I had not simply waited for the local shops. My partner found this hilarious, naturally, and filmed the whole thing.

The apartment itself was a proper tonic after that nonsense. A bright, no-fuss sort of place with a balcony overlooking communal gardens, and most importantly, a kitchen that actually looked like someone cooked in it rather than just reheated airport sandwiches. I unpacked my rescued oranges onto the counter and felt immediately better. There is something about a Spanish kitchen that makes you want to roll up your sleeves, even if your sleeves are already damp with orange juice and humiliation.

We had decided to self-cater properly this holiday, which meant the Santa Susanna weekly market became my new religion. It sets up near the train station on Wednesdays, and I was there with an empty bag and overambitious intentions before ten o'clock. The stalls practically groan with produce. I bought tomatoes that smelled like actual tomatoes, which sounds obvious but is rarer than it should be, plus some fat green peppers, local sausages called botifarra that the vendor insisted I try, and a wheel of cheese I definitely overpaid for because I got flustered trying to do mental conversion. I also acquired a bunch of herbs I later discovered was not mint but something far more aggressive. My first attempt at a Catalan-style stew involved this mystery herb, and the result was edible but deeply confusing. We ate it on the balcony with cheap cava and laughed until the people below probably considered calling someone.

The mercadona in town became my backup for when my market enthusiasm exceeded my skill. I developed an embarrassing attachment to their pre-prepared tortilla espanola, which I would tell myself was "for research" before demolishing half of it standing at the kitchen counter in my pants. The bakery section did me no favours either. I kept buying pan de cristal, that crackling thin Catalan bread, telling myself it was for accompanying dinner when really I just wanted to tear pieces off and dip them in olive oil while staring at the garden.

One evening I attempted a proper paella on the electric hob, which I now understand is a bit like trying to waltz in wellies. It tasted fine, but the socarrat, that prized crispy bottom layer, was more of a theoretical concept than an achieved reality. We ate it anyway, drinking more cava, watching the light fade over the gardens. My partner said it was lovely, and I chose to believe them. There is something about cooking badly in a foreign kitchen that feels like progress somehow, like you are failing upwards towards understanding a place.

By the end of the week I had a fridge full of half-used condiments and a newfound respect for anyone who makes alioli from scratch. I left my remaining oranges on the counter for the next guests, a small peace offering from someone who should probably stick to restaurants.