I have never been so grateful for a wonky satnav in my life. There we were, winding through Campania like a lost corkscrew, my other half insisting the route was "scenic" whilst I clutched my phone and the hire car's suspension protested every pothole. The mishap came just outside Vallo della Lucania itself, when I confidently directed us down what I swore was the lane to our villa. Ten minutes of increasingly narrow track later, we found ourselves in a lemon grove, surrounded by curious goats and one extremely unimpressed farmer. I do not speak Italian beyond "grazie" and "due birre," but I understood his gestures perfectly. We reversed in what I can only describe as a forty-seven-point turn, my cheeks burning despite the excellent air conditioning.

The proper lane, when we finally found it, was almost as narrow. But then the villa appeared, perched on its hillside with views that made me forgive every goat-related humiliation. IKC449, according to my paperwork, though I promptly renamed it "The Lemon Retreat" in my head. The pool glimmered. Terracotta pots overflowed with geraniums. Somewhere below, Vallo della Lucania's terracotta rooftops clustered together like they were sharing gossip. I stood on the terrace, still slightly trembling from the driving, and felt that particular holiday sensation of everything being simultaneously unfamiliar and exactly right.

We had planned this as a walking holiday. Proper British walking, I had told myself, packing boots that had seen the Lake District and Yorkshire Dales. The Cilento hills stretched before us, green and inviting, and I had already mapped routes to nearby trails before we left Gatwick. Day one dawned grey but promising. We set off toward a path I had spotted from the terrace, winding through olive groves toward higher ground. Within forty minutes, the sky performed that particularly Italian trick of turning from mild inconvenience to theatrical downpour. Not British drizzle, mind you, but warm, insistent, soaking rain that found every gap in my supposedly waterproof jacket. We squelched back, laughing despite ourselves, my boots making noises I did not know boots could make.

Day two, we tried again. The weather app, which I now suspect was mocking me, showed sunshine symbols. We walked further this time, reaching a viewpoint where the coast shimmered in the distance. I felt smug. I took photographs. Then the clouds gathered with what I can only describe as malicious intent. The return became a hurried scramble, slipping on paths turned to streams, my other half's expression suggesting this was somehow my fault for checking the weather in the first place. "You know what they say about British people and talking about the weather," I panted, which did not improve matters.

By day three, I had developed what I called "weather anxiety." I woke at six to study the sky like a farmer from a previous century. We attempted a shorter loop through woodland near the villa, reasoning that trees might offer some protection. They did not. The rain came horizontally. We sheltered beneath an ancient oak, sharing a squashed panini and admitting defeat with the particular honesty that only comes to couples who have been together long enough to find such moments funny rather than fractious.

It was during this soggy interlude that I had my small moment of reflection. I had packed for the Italy of brochures, the Italy of guaranteed sunshine and dusty paths. I had not packed for the Italy that actually exists, with its own weather patterns, its own moods, its refusal to perform on demand. There is something humbling about standing in borrowed woodland, rain dripping from your nose, realising that your carefully planned adventure is not the point at all. The walking had become secondary to the simple fact of being there, of moving through a landscape that did not care about my itinerary.

We adapted, as British people generally do when weather disappoints. Shorter walks between downpours became our rhythm. We explored Vallo della Lucania itself, its narrow streets and unexpected piazzas, drying out in cafes with excellent coffee and better patience. We walked to local viewpoints when the clouds briefly parted, treating each glimpse of sunshine as the gift it was. The villa's terrace became our headquarters, books and cards replacing ordnance survey maps, the pool sadly underutilised but the wine consumption thoroughly making up for it.

On our final morning, the weather finally broke properly. We walked further than any previous day, reaching a ridge where the Cilento stretched in genuine, cloud-free glory. I stood there in boots that had finally dried, slightly sunburned, and felt an odd gratitude for all the rain. Without it, I would have marched through this landscape rather than actually inhabiting it. I would have ticked routes off a list rather than learning the particular green of olive leaves after rain, the smell of wet earth warming in sudden sun, the rhythm of a town that continues regardless of whether tourists arrive with proper expectations.

We returned to the villa for a final evening, my satnav skills no better but my perspective somewhat improved. The farmer's lemon grove, I realised, had been the true beginning of the holiday, the moment when control was surrendered and something more interesting could begin. I packed my still-slightly-damp boots with something approaching affection. They had walked less than planned, but somehow further than expected.