The sat-nav had been insisting "you have arrived" for a good three minutes before I finally accepted that the narrow gravel track winding through olive groves probably wasn't taking me to a loading bay behind a Tesco. I'd done that thing again where I'd punched "Sutri" into Google rather than the actual property name, and now found myself circling a field of sheep who looked thoroughly unimpressed with my driving. The mishap cost me twenty minutes and one slightly dented wing mirror courtesy of an overhanging fig branch, but it set the tone nicely for a holiday where nothing would go quite to plan and I wouldn't mind a bit.

I was visiting in late October, that funny in-between season when Lazio can't quite decide if it's still summer or finally ready to admit autumn has arrived. The vineyards I'd passed near Viterbo were heavy with grapes not yet harvested, and the roadside stalls still sold tomatoes that actually tasted of something, though the vendor wrapped them in newspaper with a warning that frost might come any night now. You could feel the season holding its breath.

Arriving proper at the stone house, the first thing that struck me was the light. October light in this part of Italy has a particular honeyed quality, low and slanting through the chestnut trees that surrounded the property. The swimming pool, still open according to the listing, wore a thin blanket of fallen leaves that skittered across the surface in the afternoon breeze. I would not be swimming, I decided immediately, though I spent a good ten minutes fishing out leaves with the net provided, as if this might somehow restore summer through sheer force of will.

The house itself smelled of woodsmoke and damp stone, that distinctive autumn aroma of properties that have sat empty through a hot Italian summer and are only now being woken for the cooler months. The owner had left the heating off, following some unwritten rule that October doesn't officially count as cold, so I spent my first evening wrapped in a blanket on the terrace, drinking wine that was probably too heavy for the temperature but felt absolutely right. The crickets were still going, though their chorus had thinned considerably from the full orchestral arrangement of August.

Morning brought proper seasonal revelation. Mist hung in the valley below, and the terrace tiles were slick with dew that wouldn't burn off until nearly ten. I attempted breakfast outside, committed to the romantic notion of al fresco dining, and lasted seven minutes before retreating indoors with chattering teeth and a croissant. The kitchen, with its terracotta tiles and slightly temperamental espresso pot, suddenly made perfect sense as the seasonal heart of the house.

Walking into Sutri town later, I found the place in its autumn routine. The Etruscan amphitheatre, carved from tufa rock, stood empty of the summer tour groups, and I had the ancient seats to myself except for a local walking his dog who nodded as if we were both in on some secret. The shops had switched from selling inflatable lilos to displays of porcini mushrooms and new olive oil in unmarked bottles. A bar near the cathedral served me a cappuccino without the summer tourist markup, and the barman actually chatted rather than simply processing another order.

The season shaped everything, really. The afternoon heat that still built in sheltered spots, tempting me to risk the leaf-strewn pool. The sudden chill that arrived with sunset, sending me inside to light the wood-burning stove I'd initially dismissed as decorative. Even my cooking shifted, from the grilled simplicity of imagined summer meals to slow-simmered stews using the tough-skinned but flavourful autumn vegetables from the market.

By my third evening, I'd stopped fighting it. The blanket became permanent terrace furniture. I bought proper red wine instead of pretending rose was still appropriate. When rain arrived, drumming on the terracotta roof tiles for a full afternoon, I didn't sulk but instead felt genuinely grateful for the excuse to do very little, very slowly, very warmly.

That dented wing mirror never did get fixed. It became my autumn souvenir, a reminder that arriving anywhere is always messier than the brochure suggests, and that the season you're given is always more interesting than the one you packed for.