The Sat-Nav had other ideas about how to reach our Rieti farmhouse, and frankly so did I after three hours on the road from Rome. "Turn left onto unnamed track," it chirped, moments before I turned left onto what I can only describe as a goat's suggestion of a road. The hire car bottomed out with a crunch that made my wife flinch in the passenger seat. "Just a scratch," I said, in the manner of a man who had not yet seen the scratch and was hoping the universe would respect my optimism.

We were properly lost within twenty minutes of leaving the autostrada. The Lazio countryside does this to you, I have since learned. It invites you down a lane shaded by ancient oaks, then quietly removes all mobile signal and watches you flail. I stopped to ask directions from an elderly chap leaning on a fence, who responded with such elaborate arm movements that I drove off convinced I should turn right, then immediately wondered if he had simply been swatting a wasp.

The farmhouse appeared almost by accident, tucked behind a bend where two valleys meet. We had been hunting for it, yet finding it felt like discovery rather than arrival. The owner, Marco, emerged wiping olive oil from his hands and squinting at our dust-covered Fiat as though we were the first tourists to reach him since the war. "You came the back way," he said, which I understood to be Italian for "you are an idiot but I respect the commitment."

Our luggage was still in the boot when Marco insisted on showing us his olive grove. Not the main one, mind you, but a hidden terrace he had restored himself, reachable only by squeezing past a rusted gate and descending steps worn smooth by centuries of feet. The view opened suddenly: Rieti spread below like a forgotten map, the Velino river catching afternoon light. I had planned to unpack. Instead I stood there with my washbag still in hand, wondering how many such places exist simply because nobody thought to put them on the internet.

That evening we walked without purpose, which is to say we got lost again almost immediately. A path behind the property led through walnut trees, then forked, then forked again. We took the narrower option each time, operating on the flawed logic that difficulty equals authenticity. The reward was a tiny chapel, door unlocked, containing a single candle and frescoes faded to ghosts of colour. No sign, no opening hours, no gift shop. Just someone's devotion, left waiting. My wife lit the candle and I felt suddenly awkward about my washbag, still clutched from earlier, as though I had brought inappropriate luggage to a sacred moment.

Dinner that night came from whatever Marco had growing. He appeared with tomatoes that tasted of actual sunlight, bread that required serious chewing, and wine from a neighbour whose vineyard we would never find again despite his directions. "Third left after the bent cypress," he said. We nodded as if this were a normal address.

I keep thinking about that chapel. About the olive terrace with its unmarked entrance. About the road that swallowed our car's undercarriage and delivered us somewhere the Sat-Nav never intended. The Lazio countryside rewards the lost, I have decided, though perhaps only those too stubborn to admit they are lost in the first place. I still do not know the scratch's full extent. The hire company will find out eventually. Some discoveries belong to others.