I have never been so relieved to see a lake in all my life. There we were, trundling down the SP2a with me absolutely convinced we were heading for some sort of industrial estate, my phone mount having given up and flung itself into the footwell somewhere near Monterosi. My partner was navigating using a crumpled printout because apparently we are people who print things now, and I had just spent twenty minutes arguing that Anguillara Sabazia was definitely inland, not on water, despite the name being a bit of a giveaway.

The mishap, then. We arrived at the property, this lovely terraced affair tucked into the old town, and I promptly locked us out. Not out of the house, mind. Out of the tiny courtyard where the key safe lived. The gate had one of those spring mechanisms that seemed perfectly pleasant when we entered, and then absolutely vindictive when it clicked behind me with the key still dangling on the inside. There we stood, two grown adults with a boot full of Waitrose essentials we had panic-bought at Stansted, staring at a key through iron bars like it was a winning lottery ticket we could not reach. My partner found this hilarious. I did not, though I can see the funny side now, sat here on the terrace with a beer and the benefit of hindsight. A neighbour eventually rescued us, appearing with the air of someone who has performed this service many times before, gesturing vaguely at tourists and their incompetence with keys.

That first evening set the tone, really. Once inside, the place opened up beautifully. Terraced levels, that view of Lake Martignano winking through the trees, everything feeling properly lived-in rather than aggressively styled. We abandoned any plans immediately. This was not a holiday for plans. This was a holiday for doing very little in the sunshine, and I cannot recommend it enough.

The days that followed blurred into something approaching perfection. Mornings began slowly, inevitably, with coffee on the terrace and whatever pastries we had fetched from the bakery near the main square. The old town of Anguillara itself is small enough to wander without purpose, steep enough to justify the pastries, and pretty enough that you keep stopping to take the same photograph of a cat on a wall. We kept trying to read our books and instead kept dozing off, which felt like the whole point somehow.

The lake was our constant companion, though we rarely did much with it. Some days we walked down to the shore, found a spot, and simply sat. Other days we did not bother and watched the light change on the water from above. There is something deeply satisfying about being near water without feeling obliged to swim in it, sail on it, or otherwise perform leisure activities at it. We were simply near it, and that was enough.

Local exploration remained determinedly gentle. We wandered to the neighbouring village of Trevignano Romano one afternoon, more for the walk than any particular sight, and found ourselves in a small trattoria eating pasta that tasted of actual tomatoes. Another day we pottered around Anguillara's harbour, watched fishermen mend nets with the patience of men who have never once checked a smartphone, and felt vaguely ashamed of our own restlessness.

By the end, I understood something I had forgotten. The joy of slowing down is not in the absence of activity but in the removal of urgency. Nothing needed doing. Nothing needed seeing. The sunshine was sufficient. The terrace was sufficient. My book, largely unread, was sufficient. We had come to Italy and done almost nothing, and it was absolutely everything we needed.