I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through a field outside Civitavecchia. Six hours after leaving Gatwick, plus a two-hour queue at Fiumicino car hire that tested my last nerve, I was finally on the Lazio coast and apparently destined for a tractor path. My partner Dave, ever the optimist, suggested we "see where it goes." It went to a locked gate and a very unimpressed goat. We reversed for what felt like miles, me white-knuckling the wheel of our Fiat 500, Dave making helpful comments like "bit more" and "watch that ditch" as if I were blind rather than merely furious.

By the time we found the actual road to Riva dei Tarquini, the sun had started its late afternoon dip and I was in that peculiar holiday state of hungry, sweaty, and determined to pretend everything was absolutely fine. The property sits just south of Tarquinia, that ancient Etruscan town perched on its hill, and the approach takes you through proper working farmland. Olive groves stretched in every direction, silver-green leaves catching the light, and I remember thinking how very Italian it all looked, like someone had set-dressed the entire countryside for our arrival. The goat incident was already softening into something almost funny. Almost.

The house itself appeared at the end of a gravel track, and I will admit to a small gasp. Not a sophisticated one. More the sort of noise you make when the kettle boils unexpectedly. It's a low stone building, nothing grand, but perfectly settled into its surroundings like it had grown there rather than been built. Terracotta roof, wooden shutters, that particular faded warmth you only seem to find in Mediterranean light. Dave was already out of the car stretching his legs and making that satisfied humming noise he does, the one that means he's stopped worrying about whether I booked somewhere dreadful.

The key was in the lockbox exactly as promised, though I fumbled the code three times because my brain had apparently melted during the drive. Inside, the cool struck me first, that thick-walled Italian cool that no air conditioning can properly replicate. Terra cotta floors, beamed ceiling, furniture that looked actually used rather than arranged for photographs. I found myself standing in the kitchen doorway just breathing it in, that particular smell of old stone and recent cleaning and something faintly herby from the garden outside.

Dave had discovered the terrace and was making his humming noise again, louder now. I joined him with two warm beers from the shop we'd passed, because of course we'd forgotten to buy anything cold. The view rolled out across the olive groves to a glimpse of sea, that hazy blue line where the sky gives up and becomes water. Somewhere below, a dog barked in the rhythm of dogs everywhere, and a scooter puttered along a distant road. We stood there in our travel-wrinkled clothes, warm beers in hand, not saying much, and I felt something in my chest unclench that I hadn't realised was clenched.

The mishaps weren't quite done, naturally. I later discovered I'd packed Dave's left shoe and my right, a pairing that would haunt our entire first evening. But standing on that terrace as the light turned golden and the coast stretched away in both directions, I found I didn't much mind. The sat nav had failed me, the goat had judged me, my footwear was in chaos, and I was absolutely already glad we'd come.