I have never been particularly gifted at reading maps, which is how I found myself at the wrong end of a dirt track three miles from anywhere recognisable, staring at a goat who looked deeply unimpressed with my life choices. The sat nav had given up entirely, leaving me with nothing but instinct and a rapidly melting packet of Percy Pigs on the passenger seat. Three-point turn number four, and I finally spotted the stone pillars marking the entrance to Roccaberardi.

The journey down from Rome had been straightforward enough until it was not. The motorway gave way to winding roads, then narrower roads, then something I am fairly certain was technically a footpath. But the moment I crunched onto the gravel driveway and killed the engine, the whole sorry business of getting lost felt rather like part of the charm. The place simply demands you slow down. There is no other option.

Roccaberardi sits among olive groves and rolling hills that look exactly as you hope the Lazio countryside will look, which is to say nothing like the photographs do justice. The stone farmhouse has that weathered, honey-coloured warmth that makes you want to touch the walls, which I did, standing there like a complete lemon with my suitcase still in the boot. Swallows were darting about overhead, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked with the lazy enthusiasm of an animal with absolutely nowhere urgent to be.

The owner, Marco, appeared from around the side of the house with a wheelbarrow and a grin. He spoke precisely enough English to make me feel embarrassed about my Italian, which consists mainly of food words and enthusiastic hand gestures. He showed me round with the unhurried pace of a man who has never once checked his watch in genuine alarm. The pool glimmered at the far end of the garden, fringed by lavender that hummed with bees. I made a mental note to do absolutely nothing in its vicinity for several hours.

My first afternoon became a masterclass in purposeful inactivity. I unpacked with the speed of a sloth on sedatives, then wandered onto the terrace with a book I had been meaning to read since approximately 2019. The sun moved across the sky. I turned pages without particularly absorbing words, which felt entirely correct. A gecko watched me from the wall with what I chose to interpret as solidarity.

I did eventually rouse myself for a stroll down the lane, passing nothing more dramatic than a field of sunflowers and an elderly man on a scooter who waved as if we were old friends. The village of Torri in Sabina sits perhaps twenty minutes on foot, though I took considerably longer, stopping to examine wildflowers I could not name and to watch a tractor manoeuvre through a gate with the patience of a chess grandmaster.

That evening I cooked simple pasta with tomatoes from Marco's vegetable patch, eaten outside as the light faded and the cicadas started up their nightly racket. I thought about how often I fill holidays with activity, with checking off sights and rushing between recommendations. Here, the greatest revelation was discovering how little I needed to fill a day to feel thoroughly content.

The goat, I decided, had been right to judge me. I had arrived frantic and slightly lost. Roccaberardi had other plans.