I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I missed the turning for Rieti twice and ended up in a farmyard being eyeballed by a very judgmental goat. Satnav Joan, as I'd christened her, had clearly never encountered Italian country lanes. "Recalculating," she kept saying, as if I couldn't see the olive trees brushing both wing mirrors.

Three hours out of Rome and I'd already developed that particular tension in my shoulders that comes from driving on the wrong side while pretending to look relaxed for the benefit of any passing locals. The Lazio countryside does this thing where every bend reveals another view that makes you want to stop and weep, which is deeply inconvenient when you're also trying not to clip a Vespa.

The property appeared suddenly, tucked between cypress trees like someone had been keeping it secret on purpose. A stone farmhouse with that weathered honey colour you only get from centuries of proper Italian sun. I stumbled out of the car, legs numb, and promptly tripped over a watering can that had absolutely not been there a second ago. The owner, Marco, emerged laughing before I'd even finished my elaborate performance of pretending I'd meant to do that.

"First time in Sabina?" he asked, which I later learned is the proper name for this pocket of northern Lazio. I nodded, brushing gravel from my knee. He handed me a glass of something cold and white and suddenly the goat incident felt like it had happened to someone else entirely.

The villa itself was one of those places that reveals itself slowly. The kitchen had terracotta floors cool underfoot and windows that framed the Tiber valley like a painting someone had hung specifically for my benefit. I kept wandering from room to room, opening cupboards, discovering a fireplace big enough to stand in. Marco had left local olive oil and a loaf of bread that smelled of actual effort. I tore into it standing at the counter, too hungry for ceremony, watching swallows dart across the terrace.

That evening I attempted to find the village shop Marco had mentioned. Took a left instead of a right, naturally, and found myself on a track that grew progressively more adventurous. The hire car made unhappy noises. I pressed on, because stubbornness is my primary personality trait, until the track deposited me in a clearing where an elderly man was tending beehives. He didn't seem surprised to see a lost Englishwoman. Through gestures and my terrible Italian, he sold me a jar of honey that I'm fairly certain wasn't for sale five minutes earlier. I never did find that shop.

Back at the villa, I sat on the terrace as darkness gathered properly for the first time in months. No streetlights. No neighbours visible. Just the particular silence of countryside that isn't pretending to be anything, interrupted occasionally by some creature I couldn't identify and chose not to investigate. I thought about how I'd planned every day of this trip, spreadsheets involved, colour-coding. And here I was, my first night, already gloriously off-script with questionable honey and a bruised knee.

The stars came out with embarrassing abundance. I stayed there until the wine was gone and the mosquitoes won, thinking that perhaps getting lost was rather the point.