I have never been a natural at foreign driving, so the ninety-minute schlep from Rome Fiumicino to Riva Dei Tarquini was always going to test me. The Sat Nav had the confidence of a man who has never once been wrong, which meant I followed it blindly through a toll booth, realised I had no idea how to operate the machine, and promptly dropped my credit card down the gap between the car door and the seat. There I was, arse in the air, fishing for plastic while a queue of remarkably patient Italians formed behind me. A chap in a Fiat Panda actually got out to help. I wanted the tarmac to swallow me whole. Still, we arrived, and that is what counts.

The property sits just outside Tarquinia, a proper working town rather than a polished tourist confection. My first glimpse of Riva Dei Tarquini was through olive trees and that particular late-afternoon light that makes everything look like a film set. The place is essentially a converted farmhouse complex, low stone buildings with terracotta roofs and a pool that glitters in a way that immediately makes you want to do absolutely nothing beside it. I dumped the bags, found a sun-lounger still warm from the day, and that was more or less me sorted for the foreseeable.

The first morning set the tone. I woke without an alarm, which never happens at home, and lay there listening to nothing much beyond cicadas and the occasional distant tractor. By nine the sun had already claimed the terrace, so I took coffee outside in proper Italian fashion, meaning strong and in a tiny cup, and watched a gecko dart across the wall. I had brought three books and finished none of them, which I consider a roaring success. There is something deeply satisfying about reading the same paragraph four times because you keep drifting off to look at clouds.

The pool became my office, my dining room, and my therapy couch. I am not one for vigorous swimming, preferring a sort of horizontal floating that lets me cool down without actual exertion. My other half took to calling me the human lilo. We established a rhythm of profound laziness: late breakfast, a shuffle to the pool, perhaps a brief expedition to Tarquinia for bread and cheese, then back to horizontal living by four. The town itself is a ten-minute wander, all medieval walls and sudden views of the sea, and I never tired of that short stroll. There is a little shop near the old gate that sells pecorino so sharp it makes your eyes water, and I became embarrassingly regular there.

One afternoon I attempted to visit the Etruscan necropolis, because one feels one ought to do something cultural. I got as far as the ticket office, saw the coach party assembling, and retreated to a cafe for a granita instead. I am not proud, but I am also not sorry. The tombs have waited three thousand years; they can wait for someone with more energy.

What struck me most was how quickly the urge to achieve evaporated. At home I am forever ticking boxes, answering emails, feeling vaguely guilty about sitting still. Here, stillness was the entire point. I watched swallows skim the pool at dusk. I learned that aperitivo is not a suggestion but a requirement. I discovered that I am genuinely content doing almost nothing, which came as a small revelation to someone who has always equated busyness with worth.

The mishap at the toll booth feels like the perfect metaphor, really. I arrived flustered and ridiculous, and the place gently untangled me. I left a week later with a slightly dodgy tan, an expanded waistline, and the certain knowledge that sometimes the best thing you can do is absolutely nothing at all.