I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey from Bologna airport to Oasi Ghirardi had been going swimmingly until I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I knew a shortcut through the hills of Emilia Romagna. Reader, I did not know a shortcut. What I found instead was a single-track road flanked by towering maize fields, a disgruntled-looking peacock, and the creeping realisation that I was almost certainly going to be late for check-in.

It was late September when I visited, that glorious limbo week when summer has technically finished but the sun has not quite received the memo. The countryside was thick with golden light, and the maize stalks rustled in a warm breeze that still carried a hint of something Mediterranean. I wound down the window and immediately smelled woodsmoke, which I later learned was from a neighbour preparing the first fire of the season. That smell, earthy and promising, became the signature of the whole trip.

When I finally found Oasi Ghirardi, I nearly drove straight past it. The property sits tucked behind a modest stone wall and a cluster of olive trees that were just beginning to silver in the autumn afternoon. My sat nav announced my arrival with the triumphant tone of someone who had done absolutely none of the actual work. I stumbled out of the car, slightly sweaty, slightly crumpled, and was immediately met by the owners, who seemed entirely unfazed by my flustered state. They handed me a glass of something fizzy and local, and I stood there on the gravel drive feeling like a character in a film who had finally reached the happy ending.

The seasonal timing shaped everything about those first hours. The pool was still open, though the water had that sharp, invigorating bite that makes you gasp dramatically before pretending you meant to dive in all along. I shared it with a single dragonfly who appeared to have claimed the deep end for himself. The garden was heavy with late tomatoes and the last of the figs, and the owners insisted I help myself, which I did with the enthusiasm of someone who had eaten only airport sandwiches for eight hours.

What struck me most was how the property felt caught between two worlds. The outdoor furniture still sat ready for long summer evenings, but someone had already placed a basket of blankets by the terrace door, a quiet acknowledgment that autumn was tapping its foot and waiting to be let in. I sat outside that first evening with my book and a glass of wine, wrapped in one of those blankets, watching the light fade over the hills. The temperature dropped faster than I expected, and I found myself laughing at my own optimism in packing only a light jumper. There is something humbling about misjudging the weather in a foreign country, something that gently reminds you that you are a visitor here, that the rhythms of this place have been established long before you arrived and will continue long after you leave.

The cicadas were quieter than they would have been in August, their song intermittent and nostalgic rather than insistent. A few early leaves had turned on the vines that draped the pergola, and I caught myself feeling almost proprietary about them, as if I had discovered something secret by arriving at this particular moment rather than at the height of summer when everything would have been expected and crowded and hot.

I fell asleep that night with the windows open, the air cool enough to need the extra blanket I had fetched from the wardrobe, and I woke to mist lying low in the valley below, the kind of mist that promises a bright day once it burns away. That first morning, I understood exactly why they called it an oasis. Not because it was hidden, though it was, but because it offered a particular kind of seasonal refuge, a chance to catch Emilia Romagna in its moment of transition, generous and golden and slightly unpredictable, rather like my own arrival.