I have never been a natural at travelling light, and my arrival at Lygia Xylokastro proved this beyond all doubt. There I was, rattling down the coastal road from Athens in a hire car barely big enough for my ego, let alone three suitcases, a cool box, and a beach umbrella that had seemed essential back in rainy Manchester. The sat-nav had given up somewhere near Corinth and was now suggesting I drive into the sea, which felt almost tempting by that point.

The mishap, when it came, was gloriously stupid. I spotted the turn for the property, got overexcited, and reversed into what I thought was a generous parking space. It was, in fact, a generous olive grove. The crunch of twigs under tyre was my first authentic Greek sound, followed by the cheerful shouting of a passing local who found the whole thing far funnier than I did. I emerged from the car with branches in my hair and dignity in tatters, already sweating through the linen shirt I had optimistically worn to look like someone who belonged in the Peloponnese.

The property itself sat perched above the coastline with that effortless whitewashed confidence Greek houses seem to have. My first impression, once I had stopped apologising to the olive tree, was the smell. Not the fig-and-sea-salt fantasy I had imagined, but something earthier and more honest. Wild oregano from the hillside, warm stone, distant woodsmoke from somewhere further up the lane. It was better than any candle I had ever bought to pretend I lived like this.

The key was where the owner had promised, tucked in a rusted metal box that required the coordination of a safecracker and the patience of a saint. I failed twice, swore once, and finally heard the satisfying clunk of success. The door swung open to reveal cool tiles and the particular silence of a house that has been waiting. I stood there like a fool, bags still in the car, just breathing it in.

The kitchen was compact and practical, the sort that assumes you will spend your time outside anyway. A single coffee pot sat on the hob, and I made a mental note to master Greek coffee before the week was out. Spoiler: I never did. The living area opened onto a terrace that changed everything. The view down to the Gulf of Corinth was absurdly blue, the kind of blue that makes you suspicious of your own eyes. I found myself laughing, standing alone in someone else's house, at the sheer ridiculous luck of being there after the chaos of getting there.

The bedrooms were simple and spotless, with shutters that actually worked and mattresses that did not creak with the sadness of cheap holiday lets. I dumped my bags in the nearest one without ceremony and headed straight back to that terrace. A gecko watched me from the wall with the detached interest of a seasoned observer of British tourists.

By evening I had located the local shop, five minutes down the lane, and bought bread that was still warm, cheese I could not pronounce, and wine that cost less than bottled water at home. I ate on the terrace as the light went soft and golden, still slightly muddy from my olive grove adventure, still unable to believe this was mine for a week. The sat-nav sat silent in the car, probably judging me. The gecko had gone, presumably to tell his friends about the English woman who fought a tree and lost.

That first night I slept with the shutters open and woke to the sound of goats somewhere on the hillside, their bells clanking with the rhythm of a percussion section that had never rehearsed together. I lay there grinning like an idiot, already knowing that this messy, chaotic, wonderful arrival had been worth every single wrong turn.