I should have known the holiday was going to be an adventure when I managed to get my suitcase strap caught in the hire car door at Gran Canaria airport. There I was, tugging away like a dog with a rope toy, while a queue of very patient Canarians waited to get past. My partner just sat in the passenger seat, slowly shaking his head and eating the last of his airport sandwich. Not his finest supportive moment, but fair enough really.

The drive up to San Bartolome de Tirajana took us through landscapes that made me forget my luggage humiliation entirely. Dry valleys, sudden patches of green, and those distinctive Canarian villages clinging to hillsides. By the time we wound our way to the property, I was already thinking about dinner. This is, I have realised, my primary holiday personality trait.

The villa itself sat in that lovely in-between zone - close enough to feel connected, private enough to pretend we were proper locals rather than pasty Brits in search of winter sun. The kitchen, I noted with immediate and probably unhealthy excitement, was properly equipped. Not the usual holiday home situation of one blunt knife and a saucepan with mysterious sticky residue. I had plans. Big, probably overambitious plans.

Our first morning, I insisted we find the local market before doing anything sensible like going to the beach. Mercadillo de San Fernando, just a short wander away, absolutely delivered. I bought tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, which in my British supermarket-conditioned state nearly made me emotional. There were bananas - Gran Canaria grows extraordinary bananas, small and sweet and nothing like the uniform yellow things back home - plus local goat cheese, honey, and peppers in colours I didn't know existed. I filled our bag with more than two sensible people could eat in a week, then added some wrinkly Canarian potatoes just because they looked so charmingly ugly.

That evening, I attempted my first proper self-catering creation. Papas arrugadas with mojo sauce, supposedly simple. The potatoes need boiling in very salty water until the water evaporates and they wrinkle. I, in my wisdom, got distracted by a glass of local wine and let them go a bit too far. What emerged was less "authentic Canarian" and more "suspicious pebbles from the beach." The mojo verde, however, with its garlic, coriander and cumin, was genuinely decent. We ate the potatoes anyway, because holiday calories don't count and pride is expensive.

Breakfasts became my favourite ritual. Fresh bread from the panaderia, proper Spanish tortilla from the market, those tiny bananas, and coffee made in the old-fashioned stovetop pot I'd found in the cupboard. I sat on the terrace every morning in my ridiculous holiday shorts, feeling briefly like a person who has their life together. The local queso fresco with honey drizzled over it - a combination that sounds wrong until you try it - became my daily indulgence.

Midweek, we discovered a tiny fishmonger where I attempted to buy some local catch using my GCSE Spanish and enthusiastic pointing. I came away with what I think was cherne, a type of wreckfish, though the conversation involved some confusion about whether I wanted it whole or filleted. I pan-fried it simply with local olive oil, garlic and lemon, served with more of those wrinkly potatoes - I'd improved my technique by then - and a salad of market tomatoes that tasted like actual sunshine. It was, without exaggeration, one of the best meals I've had.

The gentle self-reflection came one evening, watching the sun dip behind the hills with a glass of Canarian white and the remnants of a cheese board. I'd spent half this holiday planning, shopping for, cooking and eating food. Not sightseeing, not being particularly active or cultured. Just eating, basically. And I couldn't bring myself to feel guilty about it. There's something honest about connecting with a place through its markets, its ingredients, the small daily rituals of feeding yourself well. I'm never going to be one of those people who comes back from holiday with interesting stories about museums or impressive hikes. I come back with recipes scrawled on receipts and a slightly expanded waistline. That's just who I am, and Gran Canaria fed that version of me absolutely perfectly.

On our final morning, I made one last trip to the market for bananas to bring home, though I knew they'd never taste the same in my kitchen in Manchester. The stall holder recognised me by then, which felt like a small victory. I left with my fruit, a bit of Spanish banter I mostly didn't understand, and the satisfying knowledge that I'd absolutely eaten my way through this holiday with commitment and only moderate culinary disaster. The suitcase strap incident set the tone, really - slightly chaotic, entirely self-inflicted, but ultimately fine. Much like my cooking.