There's a special kind of optimism that possesses you when you're driving a hire car up a winding Ibizan road, Google Maps cheerfully announcing you've arrived while you're clearly staring at a goat. That was me, about twenty minutes outside San Carlos, convinced I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere between the airport and my own common sense. I'd stopped for what I thought was a quick espresso in Santa Eulalia, got chatting to a lovely local chap about his almond trees, and completely lost track of time. Classic me. By the time I actually pulled up to Villa Finca Cielo, the sun was doing that golden-hour thing that makes everything look like an Instagram filter, and I was absolutely ravenous.

The villa itself hit me immediately. Proper rustic finca vibes, all honey-coloured stone and terracotta, with a pool glinting like someone had spilled a load of turquoise paint in the garden. But I'll be honest, my first thought wasn't "how picturesque" - it was "where's the nearest place I can buy food before everything shuts." The kitchen, when I found it, was gorgeous. Big farmhouse table, decent hob, and a fridge that echoed ominously when I opened it. One sad lemon and a bottle of water from the previous guests. Not exactly the feast I had in mind.

Morning brought salvation in the form of San Carlos village, which is basically a ten-minute wander if you don't get distracted by chickens. The little supermarket there saved my life. I stocked up on sobrasada, that soft spreadable chorizo that tastes like Mallorca in a jar, proper crusty bread, and tomatoes that actually smelled of something. The woman at the till seemed highly amused by my enthusiasm. I think I may have frightened her slightly.

That first lunch on the villa terrace was ridiculous. Just bread rubbed with garlic and tomato, drizzled with olive oil so green it practically glowed, plus some Manchego I'd found. I sat there in my still-creased holiday clothes, feeling incredibly pleased with myself for approximately twelve minutes. Then I attempted to use the outdoor barbecue. Let's just say there's a reason they don't let me near open flames at home. The local prawns I'd bought from a fish van that circles the area - genuinely brilliant concept, like an ice cream truck but with seafood - went from raw to charcoal in what felt like seconds. I ate them anyway. Stubbornness is a hell of a seasoning.

The weekly hippy market at Las Dalias became my church. It's barely fifteen minutes away and I went three times in eight days, which even I recognise as excessive. There's something dangerously hypnotic about wandering between stalls of fresh goat's cheese, local honey, and those enormous paella pans bubbling away. I bought herbs I couldn't identify, was talked into some fiercely strong hierbas liquor by a man with excellent dreadlocks, and ate the best tortilla of my life from a stall run by a fierce grandmother who clearly considered my Spanish adorable but inadequate.

Back at the villa, my cooking improved marginally. I mastered a decent alioli after several attempts that can only be described as garlic soup. The kitchen started accumulating things - a proper wooden spoon from the market, sea salt in a dish, half a bottle of decent wine that I was definitely going to finish tomorrow. The outdoor dining area saw some genuinely lovely evenings, me attempting to recreate things I'd eaten at Es Pins, this brilliant little restaurant in the village where they do grilled squid so tender it barely requires chewing.

There's something about self-catering in a place like this that strips away any pretence. You can't pretend to be sophisticated when you've just spent twenty minutes chasing an escaped olive around the kitchen floor. But there's a real joy in it too, in making something simple from what you've found, eating it slowly as the light changes, feeling genuinely hungry in a way that seems rare at home. I arrived at Villa Finca Cielo slightly chaotic and underfed. I left with slightly tighter clothes and a new appreciation for taking your time, both with food and with getting lost.