I have never been so relieved to see a terracotta roof in all my life. Twelve hours after leaving a drizzly Luton, there it was, glowing in the late afternoon sun like a promise I was not sure anyone would keep. The sat nav had given up somewhere near Civitavecchia, which I took as a sign to embrace the Italian way of doing things. That is to say, get hopelessly lost and pretend it was the plan all along.

The mishap came at the final roundabout. I had been doing rather well with the whole driving-on-the-right business, if I say so myself. Three hours from Rome Fiumicino, not a single near-death experience to report. Then I spotted a sign for Tarquinia and got overexcited. Took the exit too sharply. The hire car's front bumper kissed a very low, very solid stone wall with a crunch that still makes me wince when I think about it. Not a proper crash, mind you. More of an enthusiastic greeting. The kind of greeting a Labrador gives your knee. Still, I sat there for a good minute, gripping the steering wheel, wondering how exactly one explains this in holiday Italian.

The property sat at the end of a gravel track lined with umbrella pines, those impossibly tall ones that look like they have been drawn by a child who got a bit carried away with the green crayon. I had chosen a villa rather than a hotel because I wanted to pretend, however briefly, that I belonged here. That I understood the rhythm of this place. That I would pop to the market for pecorino and tomatoes and conduct the entire transaction without once resorting to pointing and apologetic smiling.

The key was exactly where the owner said it would be, tucked in a terracotta pot beside a lavender bush that had gone slightly wild. I fumbled with the lock, still flustered from the bumper incident, and stepped inside to that particular hush that old houses have. Cool tiles underfoot. The faint smell of cedar and something citrusy, probably the cleaning products, but I chose to believe it was just Italy being effortlessly fragrant.

The kitchen opened onto a covered terrace with a view I had not properly prepared myself for. Rolling hills, vineyards stitching the land together in neat rows, and in the distance the glimmer of the sea. I stood there with my suitcase still in the car, my mouth actually open, feeling like the protagonist in one of those films where someone inherits a life they do not deserve. The kind of moment that makes you simultaneously grateful and slightly guilty, because surely you have done nothing to earn this particular patch of beauty.

I made myself a cup of tea using the electric kettle, which felt like a small betrayal of local custom but I was too exhausted for espresso rituals. Carried it outside. Sat on a wicker chair that creaked in a friendly, reassuring way. A gecko darted across the wall and I startled, spilling a bit on my trousers. So much for looking like I belonged.

That first evening, I did not venture far. Opened some wine I had bought at the airport, which I now realise is the travel equivalent of wearing socks with sandals. The local stuff would have been infinitely better and probably cheaper. I ate bread and cheese standing at the kitchen counter, too tired to be civilised about it, watching the light change from gold to violet over the hills.

The bumper could wait until morning. The exploring could wait. For now, there was just this: a quiet house, a warm evening, the distant sound of someone else's dinner preparations drifting across the valley. I had arrived, more or less in one piece, and that felt like enough achievement for one day.