I have never been so relieved to see a stone wall in my life. Twelve hours after leaving Luton, there it was: the boundary of our Vitorchiano holiday let, rising out of the Lazio countryside like a promise that I might eventually stop moving.

The journey had been one of those comically cursed affairs that start with a missed junction on the M1 and somehow snowball. By the time we reached the rental car at Fiumicino, my partner and I had the hollow-eyed look of people who had seen too many airport floors. Still, spirits lifted as we headed north on the A1, windows down, Italian radio crackling through speakers that definitely had seen better decades. The rolling hills started appearing, all golden and dotted with cypress trees like something from a postcard we would later overpay for.

Then came the mishap. Our sat nav, which I shall call "Judas," decided that the most direct route to Vitorchiano involved a track that grew progressively less road-like until it became, essentially, a gravel path through someone's olive grove. I am not proud of what happened next. In my exhausted state, I failed to notice the drainage ditch disguised by overgrown grass until our little Fiat was listing at an angle that suggested we might be staying there permanently. My partner's expression was a masterclass in married restraint. A farmer appeared from nowhere, shaking his head with the weariness of someone who had pulled many foolish tourists from ditches before. Between his tractor, some rope, and my profuse apologies in broken Italian, we emerged twenty minutes later, mud-splattered and thoroughly humbled.

The final approach to the property was almost embarrassingly pretty after such indignity. Vitorchiano itself sits perched on volcanic rock, and our holiday home nestled just below the old town walls. I had worried the photos on the booking site were flattering it. They were not. The stone farmhouse sat among terraced gardens, with a view across the valley that made me forget entirely about the ditch incident. Almost.

The owner, a woman called Luisa with hands that suggested she actually worked her land, met us at the gate. She took in our mud-caked car with admirable composure, said something in rapid Italian that might have been sympathy or might have been gentle mockery, and led us through to a courtyard shaded by a pergola heavy with wisteria. The smell hit me immediately: lavender, warm stone, something herby I could not identify. It was the smell of somewhere that does not hurry.

Inside, the place had that particular Italian talent for being rustic without tipping into theme-park territory. Terracotta floors, exposed beams, furniture that looked inherited rather than purchased. The kitchen window framed a view of the garden that seemed almost aggressively picturesque, as if the house were showing off. I found myself standing there longer than necessary, holding a bag of pasta I had not yet put down, just staring.

Luisa left us with a bottle of her own olive oil and instructions for the wood-fired oven that I immediately knew we would use incorrectly. We sat outside as the light changed, drinking wine we had bought at a service station that now felt like another universe. The town above us glowed in the evening sun. Somewhere, a dog barked. My partner and I did not speak much. There seemed little to add.

I thought about that ditch on the drive down, how frustrated I had been, how thoroughly I had cursed Italian infrastructure and my own stupidity. Now, with the valley spreading below and the first stars appearing, it felt like a necessary toll for arrival. You cannot stumble into paradise without some stumbling.