I have never been so happy to see a corkscrew in my life. There we were, bumping down the winding lanes of Ribeira Sacra, my partner navigating while I clutched a paper bag of pulpo from a roadside stall in Ourense, and somehow between the third and fourth hairpin bend the bottle of local Mencia rolled clean off the back seat and wedged itself beneath the handbrake. When we finally pulled up at the stone house in Diomondi, I spent ten minutes on my knees in the gravel, fishing it out with a brolly handle and vowing never to buy wine with a wax seal again.

The house itself was proper Galician countryside: thick granite walls, wooden shutters that creaked like an old man's knees, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and last year's chestnuts. I dumped the pulpo on the counter and immediately opened every cupboard. This is my ritual, I cannot help it. I need to know what I am working with. The previous guests had left behind a half-empty tin of pimenton, some suspiciously ancient garlic, and a note in German that I choose to believe wished us well.

We had arrived on market day in Monforte de Lemos, though "arrived" suggests more purpose than we actually managed. The truth is we got lost twice, once behind a vineyard and once following a farmer whose tractor moved at roughly the pace of continental drift. By the time we found the market, most stalls were packing up. I managed to grab chorizo, some cheese that the woman swore was "muy fuerte," and a bag of peppers that I later discovered were not the mild sort I had assumed. That first evening I attempted a simple tortilla. The peppers had other ideas. My partner's face went through several shades of interesting while I pretended this was exactly the kick I had intended. We ate it anyway, standing at the counter with the Mencia finally open and the shutters thrown wide to the valley.

Breakfast became my favourite ritual. There was a bakery in a village I cannot pronounce where the bread came out at half seven, still singing with heat. I would drive down in my pyjama bottoms and a coat, returning with loaves that cracked like thunder when you tore them. We ate them with the local honey I found at a petrol station of all places, and butter that tasted of actual grass. My partner developed a serious dependency on the churros from a van near the river, though I maintain they are just fried dough and not a proper breakfast. He maintains I am a joyless creature before my second coffee.

The kitchen at the house had a proper fireplace with a grill, and on our third evening I attempted what I called "authentic asado" after watching a YouTube video on 4G that buffered at the crucial moment. I bought a cut of pork from a butcher who spoke no English and whose Galician I mangled so thoroughly that I suspect I accidentally proposed marriage. The meat was magnificent, charred outside and pink within, though I set off the smoke alarm twice and singed my eyebrows to a degree that required explanation at the swimming spot the next day.

I did try to recreate the pulpo a feira of my dreams, boiling the octopus I had carried so carefully from Ourense. It turned out chewier than my grandmother's Sunday roast, which is saying something. We ate it with potatoes and more of that fierce pimenton, laughing at my ambition while the valley went dark around us and bats began their evening patrol.

The small mercado in Sober saved my pride later in the week. I found proper octopus there, already tenderised by someone who knew what they were doing, plus clams that spat satisfyingly in a pan of garlic and wine. I made a proper meal then, one that did not require apology, and we ate it on the terrace with the river somewhere below us and the scent of eucalyptus drifting up from the gorge.

By the end of the week I had accumulated a small museum of failed experiments: a rice dish that clumped like wet cement, empanadas with structural integrity issues, and one memorable attempt at tarta de Santiago that emerged from the oven looking like a frisbee. But I also had the bread mornings, the proper clams, the pork cooked finally to something like right, and the knowledge that Galician butter is simply better than other butter and I will not be argued with on this point.

We left the remaining pimenton for the next guests, along with a fresh note in English that I hope they translate more carefully than I did the German. The wax-sealed Mencia was long gone, replaced by simpler bottles that did not require tools to open. I packed my pyjama bottoms with regret, already missing the bakery and its half-seven warmth. Some holidays you remember for the views, and Ribeira Sacra certainly offers those. I will remember this one for the kitchen, the smoke alarm, and the particular pleasure of feeding yourself badly and well in a place that does not hurry.