I have never been so relieved to see a swimming pool in my life. After a three-hour drive from Alicante airport, during which I managed to get us spectacularly lost somewhere near Cartagena because I was convinced the sat nav was "being dramatic," we finally rolled up to our villa in Fuente Alamo. The mishap? I had somehow set the route to avoid motorways entirely, which turned a straightforward journey into a scenic tour of every back road, olive grove, and confused goat in southeastern Spain. My partner sat in silence for the final twenty minutes, a skill I have learned to read as "we will discuss this later over wine."

The villa itself was proper lovely. Whitewashed walls, terracotta tiles, and a kitchen that actually had more than one blunt knife and a questionable tin opener. I have endured self-catering kitchens that looked like they were stocked during the Franco era, so this was promising. The previous occupants had even left behind a half-empty bottle of olive oil and what I choose to believe was a thoughtful gesture rather than oversight.

By this point it was half seven, which in Murcia means absolutely nothing because nobody sensible eats before nine. We dumped our bags and headed straight for the Mercado de Fuente Alamo, a modest but brilliant little market in the town centre. I had done my research, by which I mean I had skimmed a blog post at the airport while my partner queued for coffee. The market was winding down for the evening but still had stalls piled with tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes, fat green peppers, and bundles of fresh herbs that I could not identify but purchased enthusiastically anyway.

That first evening we kept it simple. Pan con tomate, some manchego, a few slices of jamon from a butcher who tolerated my pointing and nodding with remarkable patience. I attempted to recreate the proper Valencian paella the following night using a pan I found in a cupboard that was either paella-specific or a very shallow wok. The rice stuck to the bottom with such determination that I briefly considered serving it as a feature rather than a failure. My partner, diplomatically, called it "socarrat-forward." I called it a learning experience and opened more wine.

The local Mercadona became my second home. I have never been so emotionally invested in a supermarket chain. Their own-brand olive oil is genuinely excellent, and I developed a small obsession with their tinned seafood section. We ate boquerones en vinagre on the terrace most lunchtimes, accompanied by bread from the panaderia on Calle Mayor where the woman behind the counter started recognising my terrible accent and would simply hand me my usual without the charade of me attempting to pronounce "barra de pan."

I did venture to the weekly street market, held on Thursday mornings near the Plaza de la Constitucion. This was where I truly came unstuck. Overwhelmed by choice and the aggressive friendliness of a vendor selling something I thought was chorizo but was definitely not chorizo, I purchased several items I could not name and one very large fish with eyes that judged me. The fish became a whole afternoon project involving YouTube tutorials, a lot of lemon, and my partner retreating to the pool with a book. It was edible. That is all I will commit to in writing.

The cooking attempts escalated. I tried gazpacho with local Murcian tomatoes and nearly wept at the colour alone. I attempted to make a proper caldero, the rice dish from the Mar Menor, using fish stock I made myself from those judgmental fish bones. It was not authentic. It was, however, delicious in a way that only holiday cooking can be, where standards lower pleasantly and everything tastes better eaten outdoors in fading light.

By the end of the week, our fridge contained the archaeological layers of good intentions: leftover tortilla, some questionable anchovies, a pepper that had gone soft but not yet bad, and three types of cheese in various stages of consumption. I had become the sort of person who plans dinner while eating lunch, who discusses the merits of different olive oils with genuine feeling, who says things like "the tomatoes here are just different" as if this is profound.

On our final morning, I made one last pan con tomate and sat by the pool watching the swallows dart about. My partner asked if I was going to miss this. I was too busy chewing to answer properly, but the truth was obvious in the crumbs on my plate and the slight sunburn on my shoulders. I would miss the food, certainly. But more than that, I would miss the version of myself who had time to care about whether rice stuck to the bottom of a pan, who got lost on purpose without meaning to, who ate slowly and laughed about it after.