I have never been so relieved to see a washing machine in my life. After a twelve-hour journey involving two flights, a hire car with suspicious air conditioning, and one spectacularly ill-judged pistachio gelato at Rome Fiumicino, I arrived at our holiday home in Pizzo Calabro looking like I had already been on holiday for a fortnight and lost a fight with a salad spinner.

The trouble began somewhere on the A3 autostrada. My partner had insisted on navigating, which in our relationship means holding the phone at an angle that prevents anyone from actually seeing the screen, then confidently declaring "it's definitely this turning" approximately forty metres after we have passed it. We looped through a village called something like San Something-or-Other three times, each pass greeted by the same old man on a scooter who clearly thought we were casing the joint. By the third lap, he had fetched his dog to watch.

The property itself sat perched on one of those absurdly picturesque hills that Calabria does so effortlessly, all terracotta roofs and bougainvillea tumbling over walls like it had somewhere better to be. I was too frazzled to appreciate it properly. I was too busy realising that in my genius packing system, I had somehow brought four phone chargers, seventeen sachets of Yorkshire Tea, and not a single pair of trousers that did not currently feature a sizeable gelato stain down the front.

The key collection involved a charmingly cryptic set of instructions left by the owner, a lovely woman named Rosaria who I suspect has never once in her life been flustered by anything. "The key is under the terracotta pot near the lemon tree," she had written. There were seven terracotta pots. There were four lemon trees. One pot contained a lizard that I am fairly certain judged me personally.

I found the key eventually, wedged beneath a pot containing what I desperately hoped was a very small lemon and not something that would later require medical attention. The front door stuck, because of course it did, and I shoulder-barged it with the grace of a burglar having a stroke. It swung open dramatically and I stumbled into the coolest, most gloriously tiled hallway I have ever encountered. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. I stood there, sweating, stained, and slightly breathless, and thought: alright, this might actually be worth it.

The kitchen smelled faintly of oregano and old stone, which is exactly how I want every kitchen to smell from now until I die. Through the shutters, I could see down to the coastline, that particular Mediterranean blue that makes you understand why people paint things. My partner was already investigating the terrace, making the satisfied humming noise he reserves for decent outdoor furniture and unexpected sea views.

I found the washing machine in a small utility room that also contained a mop, a religious calendar from 2019, and what I choose to believe was a very committed dust bunny. I loaded it with everything I was wearing, wrapped myself in a beach towel of questionable vintage, and poured a glass of wine that cost less than a London bus fare. The machine rumbled into life with a sound like distant thunder, or possibly my stomach after that gelato.

Sitting on that terrace as the sun went down, watching Pizzo Calabro's lights flicker on across the hillside, I felt something shift. The journey had been ridiculous. I looked ridiculous. But there was grilled bread waiting to be made in that kitchen, and a beach five minutes away that I had not yet embarrassed myself on, and an entire week of doing very little indeed stretching ahead of me. Sometimes the best arrivals are the messy ones. You appreciate the sitting still so much more.