I have never been so grateful for a satnav in my entire life. After flying into Alicante and picking up our hire car, my partner and I set off for Gran Alacant with the confidence of two people who had definitely not looked closely enough at the directions. Forty minutes later we found ourselves in what I can only describe as an industrial estate's less charming cousin, surrounded by lorries and the nagging suspicion that we had missed a turn somewhere around Elche. The satnav, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to send us on a scenic route that featured absolutely no scenery. By the time we pulled up to the townhouse in Gran Alacant, I had eaten half a packet of emergency digestives and developed a slight twitch whenever I heard the word "recalculating."

The property itself was a proper relief. A modern townhouse with a roof terrace that practically begged for a glass of wine and some serious relaxation. But first, food. We were absolutely ravenous, and not just from the journey. There is a particular hunger that comes from getting lost in a foreign country that no airport sandwich can touch. We dumped our bags and headed straight for the local Mercadona, which I had spotted during one of our many incorrect turns.

Now, I should mention that my Spanish extends to about twelve words, eight of which are food-related. This has never stopped me from being wildly overconfident in supermarkets abroad. I marched in with the energy of someone who absolutely knew what they were doing and proceeded to fill our basket with a chaotic assortment of items. Chorizo, obviously. Some Manchego that looked respectable. Tomatoes that actually smelled like tomatoes, which always feels like a small miracle after British supermarkets. A bag of peppers, because when in Spain. Then I spotted the fish counter and decided, with the sort of misplaced ambition that holiday cooking always inspires, that I would attempt a proper Spanish fish stew that evening.

The woman behind the counter asked me something rapid and musical, and I panicked and pointed at what I now believe was monkfish, though it might have been something else entirely. She wrapped it with the patient efficiency of someone who has seen many tourists point helplessly at seafood. I added some squid rings from the chilled section, because why not commit fully to the bit, and some saffron that cost more than I care to admit.

Back at the townhouse, I discovered that our kitchen was actually rather well-equipped, which immediately made me feel worse about what I was about to attempt. I had visions of myself as some sort of rustic Spanish grandmother, effortlessly throwing together a masterpiece. The reality was considerably more shambolic. I overcooked the squid into something with the texture of elastic bands. The tomatoes refused to break down properly. The saffron, that precious saffron, turned everything an alarming shade of yellow that made my partner ask, with genuine concern, whether I had followed a recipe.

I had not followed a recipe. I had followed a feeling, and the feeling was hunger.

We ate it anyway, sat on that roof terrace with the warm evening air and the distant sound of someone else's much more successful barbecue. And you know what, it was not terrible. The monkfish, whatever it actually was, held up well. The chorizo had done heavy lifting in the flavour department. We opened a bottle of local red that cost about four euros and tasted like it should have cost considerably more. There is something about eating your own slightly questionable cooking in a beautiful place that makes it taste better than it has any right to.

The next morning, properly chastened, we found the actual local market in Santa Pola, a short drive away. This was the real thing, all shouting vendors and fish still twitching on beds of ice. I bought some proper prawns from a man who showed me exactly how to cook them, slowly and with garlic, and I listened this time. We ate them for lunch with nothing but lemon and good bread, and they were perfect in a way that my stew had absolutely not been. Sometimes the best cooking on holiday is barely cooking at all.

By the end of the week, I had settled into a comfortable rhythm of simple things. Breakfast on the terrace with fresh orange juice and those little Spanish pastries from the bakery round the corner. Afternoons buying whatever looked good at the market and attempting not to ruin it. Evenings with plates of jamon and cheese and olives that required zero culinary skill but delivered maximum satisfaction. I never did attempt another fish stew. Some lessons you only need to learn once, preferably with witnesses who love you enough to pretend yellow elastic band surprise was exactly what they wanted for dinner.