I have to admit, I was rather pleased with myself for booking a place in Cividale del Friuli. "A charming town in the Italian hills," I told my mate Dave, who'd spent his summer in a caravan in Clacton. "Very cultured. Very understated." I'd even practised saying "Friuli" with what I thought was an authentic rolling of the tongue, though in hindsight it sounded more like I was clearing my throat.

The journey from Trieste Airport had been straightforward enough, and I was feeling terribly continental as I navigated the hire car through the rolling countryside. The hills were green and gentle, the sort that make you want to abandon your urban cynicism and perhaps take up watercolour painting. I had visions of myself strolling through medieval streets, perhaps nodding knowingly at a local vintner.

Then came the mishap. I'd been so busy admiring the scenery that I failed to notice my sat nav had quietly expired somewhere near Udine. I found myself on a narrow lane that grew progressively narrower, until I was essentially driving through someone's vineyard. An elderly gentleman in a battered Fiat appeared from nowhere, gesticulating with the confidence of a man who'd been gesticulating at lost tourists for decades. Through a combination of pointing, shouting "Cividale!" with increasing desperation, and what I can only describe as interpretive dance, I established that I'd overshot by several miles and needed to perform a twelve-point turn between two rows of grapevines.

I arrived at the property rather later than planned, flustered and smelling faintly of diesel and embarrassment. But stepping out of the car, something shifted. The afternoon heat had that particular Italian quality, thick and golden, and the immediate surroundings were impossibly peaceful. The place itself was exactly what I'd hoped for: solid, unpretentious, with terracotta underfoot and shutters that had clearly seen a few summers. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a man who'd just escaped agricultural purgatory and stepped onto the terrace.

My plan had been to spend the next day on a proper coastal walk. I'd researched the Strada Costiera, that winding route toward the Adriatic, and had packed my most serious walking boots in anticipation. The morning dawned bright and already warm, and I set off with a water bottle and misplaced confidence. The path from the town descends through wooded slopes, and I was perhaps twenty minutes in when I noticed the sky had developed a distinctly theatrical quality. The heat, which had seemed merely enthusiastic, suddenly felt rather more committed to the cause.

By midday, the temperature had climbed to something that could only be described as impolite. I found myself on a stretch of path with no shade whatsoever, my serious walking boots now feeling like two small ovens strapped to my feet. A local chap passed me going the other way, wearing sandals and carrying nothing but a small bag of groceries. He looked at me with the gentle pity of someone who understands that the British relationship with weather is fundamentally dysfunctional.

I retreated to Cividale with what dignity I could muster, which wasn't much given my alarming resemblance to a boiled lobster. The afternoon became an exercise in adaptation. I discovered that the town's medieval core, with its narrow streets and overhanging buildings, offers the most magnificent natural air conditioning. I walked slowly, very slowly, from one patch of shade to another, pausing frequently for cold drinks and to admire the Lombard Temple, which is far more interesting when you're not at risk of heatstroke.

The following days brought a better understanding of how to operate in this landscape. Early mornings became my time for proper walking, when the air still carried coolness from the night and the hills felt welcoming rather than confrontational. I found paths along the Natisone river, where the water runs clear and the trees meet overhead in a green tunnel. These were walks of the most satisfying kind: undemanding, scented with wild herbs, and punctuated by the sound of my own footsteps on stone paths that have carried feet for centuries.

By afternoon, when the heat built again, I'd surrendered entirely to the local rhythm. The terrace became my headquarters, a book in one hand and something cold in the other, watching the swallows trace impossible patterns against the sky. I walked to the bakery in the cool of the evening, when the town emerged again and the piazza filled with people doing very little with great style.

That coastal walk never did happen, not properly. I drove part of the Strada Costiera one morning, early, and walked a short stretch where the pine trees give way to sudden views of the sea. It was beautiful, certainly, but I found myself thinking of the river paths with greater fondness. There's something about adapting to a place rather than imposing your intentions upon it, a lesson I seem to need relearning with each holiday.

On my final morning, I rose before six and walked up to the Devil's Bridge, the Ponte del Diavolo, while the mist still hung in the valley below. A local dog walker nodded good morning, and we stood for a moment in companionable silence, watching the light change on the water. My boots, still overly serious, felt almost comfortable now. I thought of Dave in Clacton, and smiled. Some mishaps, it turns out, lead exactly where you need to go.