We set off for the Cox in Valencia with the usual mix of excitement and mild panic about whether we'd packed enough snacks. The drive in from the airport was straightforward enough until my sat nav decided that a tiny side street near the old town was a brilliant shortcut, which left us reversing past a very patient bin lorry and a queue of locals who clearly knew better. By the time we pulled up outside the place I was already laughing at my own expense and promising my partner that from now on I'd just follow the signs like a normal person.

The flat itself felt instantly welcoming, with a proper kitchen that made me feel like a proper grown up for once. We dumped the bags and headed straight out again because hunger waits for no one, especially after a flight. A short stroll took us to the nearest market stalls where the tomatoes looked too good to ignore, so we filled a bag and grabbed some fresh bread and a wedge of local cheese. Back at the Cox we tried to recreate a simple lunch, but I managed to slice the bread so unevenly that half the pieces looked like they had been attacked by a toddler. Still, sitting on the little balcony with a glass of cold wine and those slightly wonky sandwiches felt like a proper win.

The next morning we woke up to the smell of coffee drifting from a nearby cafe and decided breakfast out was the sensible option. We found a little spot just round the corner serving thick slices of tomato on toast with olive oil that made supermarket versions taste like cardboard. Later that day we wandered a few streets further and stumbled on a tiny restaurant where the paella was cooked in proper wide pans right in front of you. My partner ordered the seafood version while I went for the rabbit, and we both ended up swapping forkfuls like we always do when neither of us can decide.

Back at the flat we attempted a self catering dinner using the market veg and some chorizo we'd picked up. The plan was a simple stew, but I got distracted chatting and nearly let the onions catch, so dinner ended up with a faint smokiness that we decided counted as intentional flavour. We ate it at the little table by the window while watching people stroll past below, and it struck me how much nicer it felt to cook even a slightly burnt meal in a place that actually felt like home for a few days.

By the third evening we'd worked out the best bakery for fresh pastries and the greengrocer who gave us an extra orange every time we bought fruit. The whole trip started to feel less about ticking off sights and more about these small food rituals we'd fallen into without really planning them. Even the sat nav mishap on arrival seemed worth it now, because it had pushed us straight into hunting for dinner instead of overthinking everything. Sitting there with a bowl of olives and some leftover bread, I realised that sometimes the best part of a holiday is just learning how to feed yourself properly in a new place.