I have never been so grateful for a satnav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The drive down to Zoagli in late October was supposed to be straightforward. Fly into Genoa, hire a small car, follow the coastal road, arrive in time for aperitivo. Simple. Except my satnav decided that "coastal" was a mere suggestion and sent me winding up into the hills above Liguria on roads barely wide enough for a Vespa, let alone my slightly-too-large Fiat. I spent forty minutes in a state of low-level panic, crawling past olive groves and the occasional bewildered goat, convinced I was about to become a local legend: the Englishman who vanished into the terraced hills and was never seen again.

When I finally tumbled down into Zoagli proper, the late afternoon light was doing that extraordinary thing it does in autumn along this stretch of coast. Everything glowed golden and soft, the sea had turned from summer turquoise to something deeper and more serious, and the town itself seemed to be settling in for its quieter months. I had chosen October deliberately, hoping to miss the August crowds, and my first thought was that I had absolutely nailed that decision. My second thought was that I desperately needed a drink.

The property I was staying in sat on the hillside above the town, one of those classic Ligurian houses with terracotta roof tiles and shutters in that particular faded green that seems to exist only in this corner of Italy. Getting my case up the external stone steps was undignified. I am not a fit man. I paused halfway, sweating in the unexpectedly warm autumn air, and watched a local woman in her seventies stride past me carrying two full shopping bags without breaking stride. She did not laugh at me, but I felt laughed at nonetheless.

The key was in the lockbox as promised, and stepping inside was like walking into the temperature of someone else's good decision. The house had clearly been a family home once, not one of those sterile rental properties, and someone had left behind books and slightly mismatched crockery and the faint smell of dried lavender that made me think of my grandmother's airing cupboard. The seasonal timing meant the place felt lived-in but not worn out, that sweet spot between the busy summer and the full winter shutdown.

I dumped my case and went straight to the terrace, because that was what the house was really selling, and within seconds I understood why. The view down to the Gulf of Tigullio, with Rapallo twinkling in the distance and the sea doing its calm autumn thing, was the sort of scene that makes you slightly embarrassed to be seeing it alone. I should have brought someone to share this with, I thought, and then immediately thought: actually, no, I am going to be greedy and keep this to myself for a few days.

The light faded fast, as it does in October, and with it came a chill that reminded me I was not in summer anymore. I found a blanket in a cupboard, wrapped myself up, and stayed outside with a glass of wine I had bought at a service station that now felt like the best purchase I had ever made. Somewhere below, a dog barked. A church bell rang, though I never worked out which church. The sea went dark and merged with the sky.

That first evening set the tone for everything that followed. The autumn season had emptied the place of performative holiday energy and left something gentler behind. I was not doing Liguria; I was just in it, slightly lost, slightly ridiculous, and entirely content.