I have never been a natural at navigating Italian country lanes, and my arrival at the Rieti property proved this beyond all doubt. Having flown into Rome and hired a car that was roughly the size of a child's shoe, I promptly got myself wedged between two stone walls somewhere north of the city. The satnav had given up entirely, emitting only a sorrowful bloop before falling silent. A local farmer, who appeared to be roughly ninety and operating a tractor from what looked like a deckchair, eventually guided me out with a series of gestures that I can only describe as spiritually significant. I arrived at the holiday home two hours late, slightly traumatised, and in desperate need of something containing alcohol.

The property sits in the Sabine hills, and I must say that first glimpse of it rather stopped me in my tracks. There is something deeply restorative about a place that makes no demands of you whatsoever. The house itself is modest and unpretentious, with terracotta tiles and shutters that have clearly seen better decades. A small garden surrounds it, mostly given over to olive trees and what I initially took to be an enthusiastic weed patch but later learned was a herb garden. The owner had left a bottle of local wine on the kitchen table, which I interpreted as both welcome and medical necessity.

I spent my first afternoon doing almost nothing whatsoever, and this became the pattern of my stay. The terrace catches the morning sun perfectly, and I established myself there with a stack of books I had optimistically packed and a chair that creaked in a reassuring rather than alarming fashion. By the second day I had stopped checking my watch entirely. Time in Rieti seems to operate on different principles altogether. The nearest village, perhaps ten minutes by car, provides everything one actually needs: bread that tastes of something, cheese from someone who remembers your face, and coffee that makes you slightly emotional.

The countryside around the property invites only the gentlest exploration. I took to walking in the early mornings before the heat gathered, following tracks through olive groves where the only sounds were insects and my own rather laboured breathing. One afternoon I drove to the Lago del Turano, perhaps twenty minutes away, and spent several hours watching a man fish with the patience of a statue. I did not see him catch anything. This seemed entirely appropriate.

There is a small market in Rieti town on Wednesdays, and I made this my principal cultural engagement. I became embarrassingly invested in selecting tomatoes, as though my entire identity depended upon finding the correct ratio of firmness to give. An elderly woman took pity on me and physically placed three in my bag, muttering what I choose to believe were words of encouragement. I ate them that evening with nothing but salt and olive oil, sitting on my terrace as the light faded. It was possibly the best meal I have had in my life, though I suspect circumstance had rather a lot to do with this.

I had packed running shoes with serious intentions. They remained in my suitcase, and I felt no guilt whatsoever. The holiday taught me something I perhaps already knew: that I am not someone who holidays productively, crossing items off lists and accumulating experiences. I am someone who needs to sit in sunshine with a book I will not finish, listening to distant dogs and closer cicadas, occasionally moving only to refill a glass. The Sabine hills do not reward ambition. They reward stillness, and perhaps a willingness to be slightly lost.