Getting to Petrizzi in Calabria was never going to be straightforward, was it? I had this romantic vision of me gliding through southern Italy like something from a vintage film, wind in my hair, probably wearing linen. The reality involved a budget flight to Lamezia Terme, a hire car with suspicious air conditioning, and a sat nav that developed what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown somewhere between the motorway and the first mountain pass.

The mishap, though. Oh, the mishap. I had stopped at a petrol station just outside Catanzaro to buy water and, in a moment of pure holiday optimism, a large jar of local olives. I wedged them between my bags in the boot, congratulating myself on this excellent life choice. Forty minutes of winding roads later, I opened the boot to find the jar had committed suicide against the spare tyre. Olive oil everywhere. My suitcase looked like it had been marinated. I stood there in a lay-by, using an entire pack of wet wipes and muttering apologies to no one in particular, while an elderly man walked past with his dog and gave me the most pitying look I have ever received.

By the time I actually found the turning for Petrizzi, I was in no state to appreciate the view. Which is a shame, because the view is the sort that makes you forget your own name. The village sits perched on a hillside, all terracotta roofs and narrow streets, with the Ionian Sea glinting in the distance like someone left a mirror lying about. I had chosen a traditional stone house through Novasol, one of those properties that promises authenticity and, crucially, a private terrace where I could drink wine and pretend I understood Italian politics.

Parking, as it turns out, is an art form in Petrizzi. There is no such thing as a straightforward space. I executed a seventeen-point turn in a street barely wider than my wing mirrors, while a group of men outside the bar watched with the detached interest of people who have seen this a thousand times before. I think one of them placed a bet. I reversed into what I generously called a spot, got out, and immediately realised I had blocked someone's garage door. Moved. Repeated the process. More spectators. Eventually I abandoned the car in a position that was probably illegal in several countries and walked the last bit with my oil-stained bag, hoping the key collection would be simple.

It was not simple. The property manager had left the keys at the bar, because of course she had. I walked in, still slightly vibrating from the drive, and attempted to explain myself in Italian that can only be described as "ambitious." The barman, who introduced himself as Marco, produced the keys from beneath the counter with the theatrical flourish of a magician, then poured me a glass of local red without asking. I drank it in about four minutes. It was excellent. I think I may have agreed to something in my enthusiasm, possibly marriage.

The house itself revealed itself slowly. Stone walls thick enough to withstand a siege. Cool tiled floors that made me regret every carpet I had ever owned. A kitchen that looked like someone's grandmother had recently stepped out, possibly to judge my olive jar situation. I dumped my bags, opened the shutters, and there was the terrace, exactly as promised, with a view down to the coast that made my chest hurt slightly. The sort of view that demands you sit down and shut up for a moment.

I did sit down. I did shut up. The late afternoon sun was doing that golden thing it does in places that actually have decent weather, and somewhere below me a dog barked in a lazy, unconcerned way. My clothes smelled faintly of olive oil. My legs ached from the drive. I had no food in the house except what I could scrape from my suitcase, which was nothing, because olives do not travel well once liberated from their jar.

And yet. There is something about arriving somewhere slightly broken, slightly ridiculous, slightly marinated, that strips away any pretence. I was not the person who had planned this trip with spreadsheets and Pinterest boards. I was someone who had just survived a hire car, a sat nav breakdown, an olive tragedy, and a parking performance art piece. I was someone Marco had poured wine for without judgement. The terrace did not care about my mishaps. The view did not care. Calabria, I was starting to understand, operates on its own terms, and my job was simply to catch up.

I walked back down to the village later, found a small shop still open, bought bread and cheese and another jar of olives that I guarded with my life. Ate them on the terrace as the light faded and the first stars appeared, still in my driving clothes, still slightly sticky from the whole affair. It was perfect. It was absolutely perfect.