I have never been so grateful for a functioning kettle in my entire life. Three hours into our drive from Pescara airport, with the Abruzzo countryside rolling past in shades of green I did not think existed outside of paint charts, I realised I had left my entire washbag on the kitchen table in Manchester. Toothbrush, deodorant, the lot. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "how have you survived this long" look. I smiled brightly and said something about embracing the local shopping experience. He did not smile back.

We arrived at the apartment in Tortoreto Lido in late September, that awkward shoulder season where the summer crowds have melted away but the sea still holds onto its warmth like someone refusing to admit the party is over. The building sat on Via Lago di Garda, a quiet residential street a few minutes from the beach, and I immediately noticed how the light had that particular golden quality you only get in autumn. The kind that makes everything look like a film set, including my own ridiculous face in the mirrored lift door.

The apartment itself was on the fourth floor, which meant hauling our cases up when the lift decided to have a rest. Italian lifts do this. They have personality. Ours clearly felt we needed the exercise after too many airport sandwiches. But stepping inside, the balcony doors were already open, and a warm breeze carried in the smell of pine and salt and something cooking nearby that made my stomach announce itself embarrassingly loudly.

That first evening, we walked down to the lungomare, the seafront promenade, and the difference from peak summer struck me immediately. The beach clubs had packed up their rows of technicolour umbrellas, leaving stretches of sand that looked almost naked, vulnerable. A few hardy souls still braved the water, mostly local nonnas in sensible swim caps doing their determined daily laps. We found a gelateria still open, the owner leaning on the counter with the relaxed posture of someone whose tourist season was nearly done. He recommended the pistachio. It was exceptional. Everything tastes better when you are slightly embarrassed about your own incompetence.

The seasonal timing shaped everything about those first days. The morning markets in the piazza were smaller, less performative for visitors, more about actual neighbours buying actual vegetables. I watched an old man squeeze tomatoes with the concentration of a jeweller assessing diamonds. He caught me watching and winked. I bought six. They were the best tomatoes I have ever eaten, which I know makes me sound like every middle-class British holidaymaker who has ever discovered foreign produce, but honestly, they were.

Without the summer crush, conversations happened more easily. The woman in the alimentari patiently explained three different types of local pecorino while her cat slept on a stack of pasta boxes. In August, I suspect, she would have been too busy, too hot, too everything. In September, we had time to be people to each other.

That first morning, I woke early to the sound of waves and the odd scooter, made terrible coffee because I refuse to read instructions, and sat on that balcony watching the sun climb over a sea that belonged almost entirely to a few fishing boats and one very determined swimmer. The air had that particular September thickness, warm but carrying a warning, like a friend who starts a sentence with "no offence, but."

I thought about my abandoned washbag, the silly small failure of preparation. Then I thought about the tomatoes, the gelato, the nonna swimming parallel to shore with her perfect breaststroke. Some things you plan for. Others you just have to turn up and see what the season offers you. I went inside and made more terrible coffee. I was already deciding which market I would visit tomorrow, and whether I might finally learn to swim properly if I watched that nonna long enough.

The kettle, incidentally, worked perfectly. Some mercies are small but absolute.