I have never been particularly gifted at reading maps, which is how I found myself standing in a sunflower field just outside Udine, convinced I was five minutes from my holiday let. I was not five minutes from my holiday let. I was, according to a passing cyclist who looked deeply amused, roughly forty minutes in the wrong direction with a wheelie case sinking into warm earth. The sunflowers were lovely, mind you. Towering things, all nodding in the afternoon heat like they were in on the joke.

The journey from Trieste Airport had been straightforward enough until I decided to "take a scenic route" on foot from the bus stop. I had planned to arrive at the property by early afternoon, drop my bags, and set off for a gentle coastal walk before dinner. Instead I arrived at half past five, slightly sun-crazed, smelling of pollen, and with one shoe permanently discoloured from field mud. The owners, a charming couple from the village, did not bat an eyelid. They simply handed me a cold glass of tocai friulano and said, "You walked? In this heat? Brave."

The property itself was a proper gem. Terracotta roof, wooden shutters, a small garden with a lemon tree that appeared to be staging a takeover of the entire patio. I dumped my case, drank my wine too quickly, and stood there in the stillness. No traffic hum, just crickets and distant church bells. I had intended to be slick and organised. Instead I was sweaty, slightly delirious, and already deeply fond of the place.

That first evening I did not manage my coastal walk. The heat had settled into something heavy and insistent, the sort of warmth that makes ambitious plans feel faintly ridiculous. I walked instead to the nearest village, perhaps ten minutes along a dusty lane shaded by acacia trees. Ate prosciutto and melon at a trattoria where the owner sat down with me unprompted to explain why this particular ham was superior to all others. I believed him. It was that kind of evening.

The next morning I woke early, determined to correct my trajectory. The plan was a hike along the coast near Grado, where the lagoon meets the Adriatic and the paths run flat and breezy between pine woods and salt marsh. I had read about it on the flight, full of purpose. But the weather, which had been merely warm, had shifted overnight into something fiercer. By eight o'clock it was already twenty-eight degrees, and the air had that particular thickness that promises afternoon thunderstorms.

I set off anyway, because I am stubborn and had packed walking boots specifically. Within half an hour I was grateful for the pine shade, less grateful for my own optimism. The path was beautiful, no question. Butterflies everywhere, the smell of rosemary and sea salt, little wooden bridges over marsh channels. But the heat built and built, pressing down like a held breath. I reached a viewpoint over the lagoon, found a bench, and sat there longer than I care to admit. An elderly Italian man passed me twice, power-walking, not sweating at all, radiating judgment.

By midday the sky had turned that particular bruised purple that makes even enthusiastic hikers consider their life choices. I turned back. The storm broke just as I reached the car park, spectacular and sudden, warm rain that soaked me in seconds. I stood under a pine tree laughing at myself, at my grand plans, at the absurdity of trying to march through weather that clearly had its own agenda.

Back at the property I changed into dry clothes and did what I should have done from the start. I walked slowly, without destination, through the lanes near the house. Found a vineyard offering tastings, drank more tocai, watched the storm pass and the heat soften into something golden and bearable. The coast would be there tomorrow, or the day after. The walking would happen when the weather allowed, not when my itinerary demanded.

That first mishap in the sunflower field had set the tone more honestly than I knew. This was not a holiday for conquering trails or ticking off routes. It was for wandering, for getting lost, for letting the heat and the storms and the wine set the pace. I am still bad at maps. In Friuli, I finally stopped minding.