I have never been so happy to see a Tesco bag in all my life. There it was, stuffed under the passenger seat of our hire car, crumpled and slightly shameful, containing three crumpets, a jar of Marmite, and a block of cheddar that had definitely seen better days. We had been driving from Alicante airport for the best part of an hour, and in my wisdom I had decided that we absolutely could not start a Spanish holiday without proper emergency rations. My partner Maria just raised an eyebrow and kept her eyes on the road. She knows me too well.

The journey itself had been mostly uneventful, save for my attempt to pronounce "Los Alcazares" to the car hire chap with what I can only describe as misplaced confidence. I had rolled the "r" far too enthusiastically and added a "th" sound that does not exist, turning it into something that sounded like a medical condition. Maria had to step in and rescue the situation while I busied myself with the luggage.

We found our holiday home without too much trouble, tucked down a quiet residential street with palm trees doing that lovely swaying thing they do. The key was in the lockbox as promised, and I performed the little ritual of modern travel: fumbling with the code, dropping the keys, swearing gently, finally getting inside. The first thing that hit me was the heat, then the smell of clean linen and something faintly citrus from the trees outside. The second thing that hit me was the kitchen.

I am not ashamed to say I made straight for it. There is something about arriving at a self-catering property that brings out the delusional chef in me. I flung open the fridge, surveyed the empty shelves with the satisfaction of a general planning a campaign, and announced to Maria that we would be eating like locals. She reminded me that I had burnt toast that morning.

Our first evening was always going to be simple. We walked to the local supermarket, which took about twelve minutes and involved me getting overexcited about Spanish packaging. I bought eggs with the deepest orange yolks I had ever seen, some rather intimidating chorizo, and tomatoes that actually smelled of something. Maria added bread, olive oil, and a bottle of wine that cost less than a London coffee. Back at the house I attempted a tortilla, which is apparently not as easy as every Spanish person makes it look. Mine emerged as a sort of eggy scramble with potato islands. We ate it on the terrace with the wine and some of that emergency cheddar, and I have rarely been more content.

The morning market in Los Alcazares became our daily religion. We stumbled upon it by accident on our second day, following our noses and the crowd of pensioners with wheeled trolleys. The fish stall alone deserved its own postcode. I stood there like a child at a zoo, pointing at creatures I could not name while the vendor patiently explained in rapid Spanish that I probably did not want the octopus unless I knew what I was doing. I bought it anyway. This is my way.

That octopus became my white whale. I watched three YouTube videos, borrowed paprika from a neighbour I had not yet met by leaving a note and a bag of lemons, and spent two hours tenderising the thing while Maria read her book and occasionally offered unhelpful commentary. The result was chewy, overseasoned, and absolutely devoured. We washed it down with more cheap wine and agreed that failure in pursuit of local authenticity is still a kind of success.

By day four I had settled into a rhythm. Breakfast was pan con tomate, which I could now make without consulting my phone, plus coffee from the little stovetop pot that took me two attempts to master. Lunches were market assemblies: jamon, manchego, those extraordinary tomatoes torn apart with my hands like a proper peasant, all drizzled with oil that tasted of actual olives rather than the vague suggestion of them. Dinners became my theatre, sometimes triumphant, sometimes requiring emergency takeaway pizza from a place near the beach that understood my broken Spanish better than I did.

I attempted paella on our final evening, using a proper pan borrowed from the house and rice from a sack at the market that the vendor had scooped with a wooden shovel. I stood over that pan like it owed me money, stirring and not stirring according to conflicting advice, adding stock, worrying, adding more stock, worrying more. Maria opened a second bottle. The socarrat, that prized crispy bottom layer, was more of a general brownness, but we scraped it up with determination and declared it intentional.

What I loved most, I think, was the ordinary pleasure of it all. No restaurant reservations, no tasting menus, just the daily negotiation with unfamiliar ingredients and my own limited skills. The market vendors who slowly warmed to my terrible Spanish. The neighbour who finally appeared to reclaim her paprika and stayed for a glass of something. The realisation that I had not opened the Marmite once.

We finished that holiday heavier and happier, with a camera roll of unglamorous food photos and a new appreciation for how much work goes into simple things done well. On our last morning I made one final tortilla, and it actually held together when I flipped it. Maria applauded. I took a photo. We ate it in silence on the terrace, watching the palm trees do their swaying thing, already planning what we would cook when we came back.