I have to be honest with you: I had never heard of Rieti before I booked this trip. I was aiming for somewhere near Rome, got a bit overexcited on the NovaSol website, and somehow ended up clicking "confirm" on a farmhouse in the Lazio countryside that I could not even pronounce properly. "Rye-eti?" "Reh-eti?" I still do not know. But there I was, three weeks later, bombing down the Autostrada with my mate Dave, both of us convinced we were about to stumble into some undiscovered Italian paradise.

The mishap, because there is always one with me, happened about twenty minutes from the property. Dave needed the loo, desperately, so I pulled off at what looked like a harmless village petrol station. I filled up while he dashed inside, then hopped back in the driver's seat and somehow managed to lock the keys in the boot. With the engine running. In thirty-two degree heat. The petrol station attendant, a magnificent man called Giuseppe who smoked three cigarettes during the forty minutes we waited for the breakdown service, found this absolutely hilarious. I found it less so, particularly when Dave emerged from the toilet to discover we were now starring in his least favourite genre of holiday film: "Gavin's Disasters Abroad."

By the time we finally rolled up to the farmhouse, I was sweaty, embarrassed, and approximately fifty euros poorer. But then I stepped out of the car, and honestly? The whole key fiasco melted away faster than my dignity at that petrol station. The place was gorgeous. Proper rustic stone, vines everywhere, that particular golden afternoon light that makes everything look like someone has applied an Instagram filter in real life. A terrace with a view over rolling hills that seemed to stretch forever. Dave just went "blimey" and stood there with his mouth slightly open, which from him counts as poetry.

The owner, a woman called Elena who spoke rapid-fire Italian with occasional random English words thrown in like seasoning, showed us round. The pool was the first thing I clocked, shimmering and ridiculously inviting after my stressful afternoon. But Elena was already waving her arms about walking routes, coastal this and coastal that, and I had to gently explain that we were actually quite inland here. She looked at me like I was simple. "The coast?" she said. "No, no. The hills. You walk. Is beautiful." I nodded enthusiastically while Dave sniggered behind me.

That evening, we sat on the terrace with a bottle of local white wine that cost about six euros and tasted like it should cost sixty. The heat of the day was softening into something bearable, crickets going absolutely mental in the bushes, and I had one of those moments where you think, actually, I am doing alright at this life thing. Then I remembered the locked boot and nearly spat wine across the table.

Next morning, we woke early intending to tackle one of Elena's recommended walks before the heat built up. I had grand visions of striding through olive groves like some sort of Mediterranean explorer. Reality hit around nine o'clock when we had barely left the property and the temperature was already climbing past twenty-five. We were dressed for an English ramble, all proper boots and rucksacks, and the Lazio sun was treating us with the contempt we deserved. Dave's face went an alarming shade that I can only describe as "boiled ham."

We retreated, shamefully, to the pool by eleven, where we remained like lizards on warm stones for most of the afternoon. I felt briefly guilty about this failure of character until I noticed that even the local dogs had given up and were sleeping in doorways. The weather had changed our plans, certainly, but it had also forced us into a slower rhythm that I suspect we both needed more than we knew.

The following days, we adapted. Early starts, proper hats, carrying more water than seemed reasonable. We found walks along river valleys rather than exposed ridges, routes through woodland where the canopy gave merciful shade. Elena produced a hand-drawn map with various squiggles that may or may not have been paths, and we followed them with the blind faith of the truly lost. One afternoon we stumbled upon a tiny village where an old man sold us peaches from his garden that were so juicy we had to eat them leaning forward like cavemen.

I came to Rieti expecting coastal drama and instead found something quieter, more stubbornly itself. The heat shaped everything we did, forced us into a different relationship with the landscape, with time, with each other. Dave and I talked more on those sweaty walks than we had in years of pub evenings back home. Something about the shared absurdity of two Englishmen wilting in Italian sunshine, I suppose.

On our last evening, we climbed to a viewpoint Elena had marked with a star and several exclamation marks. The hills rolled away in layers of green and gold, distant villages marked by their church towers, and the cooling air carried scents of thyme and warm stone. I thought about my locked boot, about Giuseppe's cigarettes, about peaches eaten messily in a stranger's garden. The coast would always be there, another trip, another time. But this, this particular moment of imperfect, heat-dazed contentment, felt like the real discovery.

We walked back down in companionable silence, already planning our return, already laughing about what might go wrong next time.