I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I accidentally packed my partner's wellies instead of my own trainers. There I was, rolling up to our Vilademuls in Catalonia, clomping about in bright green size nines that made me look like a lost gardener at a wine tasting. The satnav had already given up twice, convinced we wanted to visit someone's goat shed rather than an actual holiday let.

The property itself sat among rolling farmland near the village of Vilademuls, all honey-coloured stone and shuttered windows that looked like they'd seen a century of afternoon naps. My wellies squelched on the gravel as I hopped out to find the key safe, already sweating in the May warmth and regretting every life choice that had led to this footwear disaster. My partner was doing that silent laughing thing where she pretends to be sympathetic but is absolutely storing this up for dinner parties.

Inside, the kitchen was the immediate star. Proper farmhouse proportions, terracotta tiles underfoot, and a wooden table that could seat eight if we had any friends worth inviting. I dumped the ridiculous wellies by the door and made a beeline for the fridge, which was empty but humming with possibility. We'd stopped at a Mercadona in Girona on the way up, and I began unpacking our haul with the gravity of a man who genuinely believes he can recreate his favourite Barcelona tapas bar in a rural kitchen with questionable knives.

The first evening was meant to be simple. Pan con tomate, some jamon, a few bits from the deli counter. I attacked the bread with a tomato half like I'd seen done a hundred times, rubbing and rubbing until the crumb was sodden and I'd created something that looked like a crime scene. My partner made appreciative noises while clearly wondering why I'd destroyed perfectly good bread. The jamon was excellent though, silky and nutty from the acorn-fed pigs we'd read about but never actually verified. We ate on the terrace as the light went soft and golden, swatting at the occasional mosquito and feeling terribly continental.

Morning meant market day in nearby Banyoles, so we drove over with empty bags and ambitious plans. The mercat municipal was already busy, stalls heaped with produce that looked like it had been picked that morning because it probably had. I bought tomatoes that actually smelled of something, proper wrinkled peppers, and a wheel of Garrotxa cheese from a woman who spoke rapid Catalan at me until I just nodded and handed over euros. My partner found a butcher selling botifarra, that plump Catalan sausage, and I may have got slightly overexcited about the possibilities.

Back at the Vilademuls, I attempted a proper lunch. The plan was grilled vegetables, the sausage, maybe some of that cheese to finish. The grill pan seemed straightforward enough until I realised the extractor fan had the suction power of a tired pensioner and the kitchen quickly filled with smoke and the smell of slightly charred pepper skin. We flung open every window and ate outside again, coughing occasionally, the botifarra nonetheless delicious with its faint fennel hit and coarse texture. The cheese had gone soft in the warmth, spreading like thick cream across the bread I'd managed not to ruin this time.

By day three I'd developed an obsession with the local bakeries. There's something about rural Catalonia where every village seems to have someone turning out proper bread at dawn, and I became determined to sample them all. The one in Vilademuls itself opened early, run by a chap who clearly considered my attempts at Catalan charmingly awful. I pointed and smiled and came away with a round loaf, crusty and still warm, plus some croissants that were really more like mini ensaimadas, all spiral and sugar. Breakfast became a lengthy affair of tearing bread, drizzling the olive oil we'd bought, and watching the mist lift off the fields.

The kitchen at the property had a proper gas hob, and I grew bolder. One evening I attempted a fideua, that noodle paella variant I'd eaten years ago in Tarragona and never forgotten. The fideos went in first to toast, which I managed without burning, then the fish stock, then the bits of squid and prawn we'd got from a fishmonger in Banyoles who'd wrapped everything in paper like a proper professional. It took longer than expected, the liquid absorbing slowly, me stirring and worrying and adding more stock than the recipe suggested because it looked dry and I panicked. The result was slightly soupy, more stew than the proper dry finish it should have had, but the flavour was there, deep and marine and somehow right. We ate it straight from the pan, too lazy to portion properly, scraping the socarrat from the bottom with wooden spoons.

My partner took over breakfast duties after my third failed attempt at tortilla, which kept emerging either raw in the middle or rubbery throughout. She had the patience for low and slow that I lacked, producing a proper thick Spanish omelette with potato that held together when sliced, still slightly runny in the centre in that way that would horrify health inspectors but delighted us. We ate it cold for lunch the next day, parked by the small pool with tomatoes sliced and salted, bread to mop up the oil.

The Mercadona run became a ritual, but we also discovered a tiny carniceria in a village I can't pronounce, where an ancient chap sold us rabbit for a proper stew. I browned it badly, the flour coating burning slightly because I'd got the oil too hot, then rescued it with wine and stock and long slow cooking until the meat fell from the bone. The kitchen smelled of garlic and thyme and something deeply savoury for hours. We ate it late, after nine, because we'd finally adjusted to Spanish time, spooning the thick sauce over the last of the good bread.

On our final morning I made one last market trip, buying too much cheese to transport home, some membrillo that would probably liquefy in the car, and pastries for the road. The wellies went back in the boot, still ridiculous, still unworn for their actual purpose. I left the Vilademuls kitchen cleaner than I'd found it, slightly sad, already planning what I'd cook differently next time. The garlic press had broken on day four and I'd never replaced it, mincing everything by hand like some kind of penance. My partner caught me looking at the property's details on my phone before we'd even reached the motorway, already scheming a return. Some holidays stay with you for the views or the weather; this one would linger in my cooking, in the smell of proper tomatoes and the memory of a kitchen where I'd tried and failed and occasionally succeeded, wearing wellies that never saw a single puddle.