I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I put the postcode into my phone and it directed me to what turned out to be a tractor shed outside Matera. Three hours of driving from Bari airport, two arguments with a sat nav that clearly had it in for me, and one very tense moment where I reversed into a dry stone wall that was definitely not on the map. The wall was fine. My dignity, less so.

By the time I actually found the place in Pisticci, I was in that peculiar state of sweaty exhaustion where you have forgotten why you wanted a holiday in the first place. The village sits perched on its hill like something from a postcard, all terracotta roofs and narrow lanes that seem to have been designed by someone who really enjoyed watching tourists suffer. I abandoned the car in what I desperately hoped was a parking spot and dragged my case up a cobbled street that grew steeper with every step. The wheels made a sound like a dying cat. A local man watched me from his doorway with the patient amusement of someone who has seen this exact scene approximately four thousand times before.

The property itself was down a tiny alley, a traditional stone house that looked exactly as it had in the photos, which was something of a relief given my track record with online bookings. I fumbled with the key box, dropped the code sheet, bent to retrieve it, and promptly bashed my head on a wrought iron lantern that had been hanging there since approximately 1750. I sat on the step for a moment, rubbing my forehead and wondering if this was what people meant by immersive cultural experiences.

Inside, though, everything shifted. The place had that particular stillness of old Italian houses, thick walls keeping out the afternoon heat, terracotta floors cool beneath my feet. A small courtyard with a table and chairs, the kind of spot where you immediately picture yourself with a glass of wine that you absolutely will not pour until you have unpacked properly. I did not unpack properly. I found the wine, located a glass, and sat there with my throbbing head and my triumphant discovery that I had actually arrived somewhere genuinely beautiful.

The kitchen was simple and functional, the sort that assumes you will be buying fresh ingredients from local markets rather than attempting anything ambitious. A bedroom with wooden shutters that opened onto a view of rooftops and distant hills, that particular hazy light that makes everything look slightly unreal. The bathroom had a shower with approximately enough pressure to wash a hamster, which I later discovered is fairly standard for properties of this age and character. You adapt. You tell yourself it builds character.

That first evening, I walked back up to the main piazza, found a bar, and ordered a beer that cost roughly half what it would at home. The barman spoke no English and my Italian extends to approximately twelve words, seven of which are types of pasta. We managed anyway. He pointed at my forehead, where a respectable bump was developing, and I made a gesture involving the lantern that caused him to laugh so hard he had to lean on the counter. It is strange how quickly you can feel at home somewhere when a stranger is laughing at your misfortune with genuine warmth rather than malice.

I sat there as the light faded and the village settled into its evening rhythm, already knowing that the chaotic arrival would become the story I told about this place, already understanding that the mishaps were somehow part of what made it feel real rather than packaged. The sat nav had failed me, the wall had dented my bumper, my head was bruised, and I had never felt more pleased to be exactly where I was.