I have never been brilliant at reading Italian road signs, and my first trip to Lignano Sabbiadoro proved this beyond all doubt. Somewhere between Trieste and our holiday let, I managed to take what I thought was a scenic shortcut and ended up in a vineyard, surrounded by grapes and a very unimpressed farmer who waved his hat at me until I reversed back onto the tarmac. My partner sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, trying not to laugh and failing completely. "At least the views are nice," she said, as I sweated through my shirt in thirty-degree heat.

We finally rolled up to our place in Lignano Sabbiadoro in the late afternoon, and I will be honest, the stress melted off almost immediately. The villa had one of those compact gardens with a little terrace, nothing fancy, but the sort of spot where you immediately picture yourself with a cold drink and absolutely no plans. I dumped our cases inside, opened the fridge to check it actually worked, and promptly stood in the doorway for a full five minutes doing nothing but feeling the warmth on my face. The kind of warmth that makes you forgive yourself for getting lost among someone else's livelihood.

That first evening, we did not do much at all. We walked down to the local shops, picked up some bread and cheese and a bottle of Friulano wine that cost less than a London sandwich, and ate on that little terrace as the light went soft and golden. I remember thinking how different this felt from our usual rushed city breaks, where you are ticking off monuments before lunchtime. Here, the main attraction seemed to be the pace itself, and I was embarrassingly ready to slow down.

The next morning, we set off early for what I had grandly called "a proper coastal hike." I had packed walking boots, a rucksack with about six litres of water, and enough enthusiasm to power a small village. The plan was to walk north along the shoreline towards the mouth of the Tagliamento river, following paths through the pineta, those lovely pine forests that buffer the beach from the roads behind. I had read that the morning light through the pines was something special, and I wanted to earn my lunch with a bit of effort.

We managed perhaps forty minutes before the heat caught up with us. Not gentle warmth, but that heavy, wet-blanket Italian summer heat that climbs through your clothes and sits on your chest. My partner, who has better sense than me, found a patch of shade and declared herself retired from hiking for the day. I carried on another ten minutes, stubborn as a mule, before admitting defeat and turning back. There is something humbling about nature reminding you that you are not as hardy as your imagination suggests. I found her eating a peach and looking entirely too pleased with herself.

The weather had other ideas for the rest of the week, and we learned to work with it rather than against it. We shifted our walking to early mornings and late evenings, when the light turned pink and the paths through the pineta felt almost magical. The midday hours became ours for swimming, for dozing on the beach, for reading books and letting the hours dissolve. It took me a few days to stop feeling guilty about this, to accept that a holiday does not need to be a military operation of achievement.

One evening, we walked south towards the lighthouse at the tip of the peninsula, the air still warm but bearable, the sea flat as glass. We passed families on bicycles, old couples holding hands, teenagers being dramatically bored in the way teenagers manage everywhere. The lighthouse itself was nothing spectacular to look at, but standing there with the breeze finally picking up, watching the last light catch the water, I felt something shift in me. I am not usually one for sentimental moments, but there was something about that particular evening, that particular walk, that made me aware of how rarely I let myself simply be present.

We walked back in darkness, guided by the lights of the beach bars and the sound of the sea, and I thought about how my ridiculous vineyard detour had started this whole trip. Sometimes the wrong turn gets you somewhere worth being, even if it takes you a while to realise it.