Getting to Imperia was supposed to be the easy bit. I'd done the research, booked the train from Nice, even practised saying "un biglietto per Imperia" with what I thought was convincing confidence. What I had not practised was the bit where I confidently stride onto the wrong train and end up heading towards Genoa instead of down the coast. By the time I realised my mistake, the autumn countryside was flashing past in entirely the wrong direction, and I spent twenty minutes doing that thing where you pretend everything's fine while quietly panicking.

The September light was already turning golden when I finally stumbled off at the correct station, rucksack half-unzipped, hair doing something unfortunate from the window draft. A local woman took pity on me and pointed me toward the taxi rank with the patient expression of someone who has watched many hapless tourists before. I probably wasn't even her first that day.

The drive to the property wound through hills still heavy with late-summer vegetation. Olive groves everywhere, their silver-green leaves catching that particular quality of light you only get in Liguria in early autumn. Not the harsh brightness of August, but something softer, more forgiving. The driver kept pointing things out in rapid Italian, and I kept nodding as if I understood, which is a skill I've perfected over years of European travel.

The villa sat on a slope above the town, and my first impression was of terraces. So many terraces. The garden tumbled down in levels, each one catching what remained of the afternoon warmth. The swimming pool had that slightly melancholy look pools get in September, still inviting but with an unspoken understanding that time is running out. A few leaves from the neighbouring chestnut tree had already begun their descent, spinning lazily onto the sun loungers below.

Inside, the rooms felt designed for exactly this season. The kitchen windows were open to let in air that still carried summer's memory but had begun to develop an edge. I found myself reaching for a light cardigan I'd packed as an afterthought, grateful for once that my mother insists I always bring layers. The tiled floors, which I imagined would be glorious in July, now felt pleasantly cool underfoot after my journey.

That first evening, I walked down to the nearest village as the light faded. The tourist crowds had thinned to almost nothing, replaced by locals reclaiming their streets. An old man was sweeping leaves from his doorway with ceremonial precision. The gelateria was still open but had reduced its flavours to the classics, and the woman serving seemed genuinely pleased to see someone. I sat on a wall eating pistachio that tasted properly of pistachio, watching the last warmth drain from the stone buildings.

Back at the villa, I opened every window before bed. The night air rushed through, carrying scents I couldn't identify but wanted to. Somewhere distant, probably closer than I thought in the clear autumn darkness, I could hear the sea. Not the busy summer sea of crowded beaches, but something more patient, more rhythmic.

I fell asleep thinking that arriving in the wrong season might actually be arriving in exactly the right one. The mishap, the unexpected chill, the quiet streets, the light that photographs never quite capture. September in Liguria doesn't shout for your attention. It waits, somewhat smugly, for you to notice what the louder months have been hiding all along.