The sat-nav had been promising us "arrival in five minutes" for the better part of forty, which I now realise is standard operating procedure for anywhere south of Rome. We'd already survived the A3 motorway, a near-death experience at a Napoli roundabout, and my partner's insistence that he "knew a shortcut" through terrain that Google Maps clearly considered theoretical. So when we finally spotted the sign for Laureana Cilento, I may have let out a small cheer that sounded embarrassingly like a distressed goat.

The property sits up a lane that starts optimistic and finishes agricultural. Our hire car, a Fiat 500 that had seemed charming in the airport car park, now looked deeply concerned about its life choices. We bumped past olive groves and the occasional suspicious goat, the suspension making noises I chose to ignore. Then came the mishap. In my enthusiasm to spot the villa, I opened my window for a better look, failed to notice a low-hanging branch, and spent the next ten minutes extracting twigs from my hair while my partner filmed the entire episode for posterity. I have since deleted this footage. Twice, apparently, because cloud backup is the enemy of dignity.

The villa itself materialised through a gap in the cypress trees like something from a half-remembered dream, or possibly a slightly overambitious estate agent photograph. Except here is the thing: it was actually better. The stone walls had that particular warmth that only comes from decades of Italian sunshine, and the terrace stretched out towards a view of hills rolling down towards the Cilento coast that made me temporarily forget my branch-related humiliation. A bougainvillea had gone absolutely feral up one side of the house, which I took as an excellent sign. Anything that relaxed about its own appearance promised a proper holiday.

Our host appeared from somewhere, which in retrospect was probably the converted outbuilding, and managed not to comment on my hair situation beyond a tactful "you have been enjoying the countryside already." She showed us the outdoor kitchen with its wood-fired oven, the pool that caught the afternoon light like it was showing off, and the covered terrace where we would spend most evenings pretending we understood the local wine. The kitchen inside was simple and functional, the sort that assumes you actually want to cook with the tomatoes and basil growing twenty feet away rather than just photograph them for social media.

I will be honest: my first proper look at the bathroom involved a moment of cultural readjustment. The bidet situation required a quick conference between myself and the instructions, during which I may have used it incorrectly before working out the logistics. Some holiday lessons you learn in private, with the door firmly locked.

By evening, the chaos of arrival had settled into something approaching contentment. We sat on that terrace with bread from the bakery in nearby Torchiara, cheese that tasted like it had opinions, and wine that cost less than a London coffee. The branch scratches on my arm throbbed gently. The Fiat sat below, looking relieved. Somewhere, a goat made a noise of professional disapproval.

I thought about how I had arrived frazzled, twig-adorned, and slightly carsick, and how none of that mattered now. The hills went golden, then purple, then that particular dark blue that makes you understand why people paint landscapes even though photographs exist. My partner was already researching wood-fired pizza techniques. I was already planning tomorrow's absolutely unnecessary trip to buy more cheese.

Some arrivals are smooth. Others involve aggressive foliage and questionable navigation. I am starting to think the messy ones make better stories, though I would not tell that to the branch.