I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I tried to get into someone else's hire car at Verona airport. In my defence, it was the exact same shade of forgettable silver as ours, and the poor chap inside looked as startled as I felt. My wife just stood there with her hands on her hips, doing that sigh she has perfected over twenty years of marriage. "That's not our car, David," she said, as if speaking to a small child. The actual owner wound down his window and said something in rapid Italian that I suspect was not complimentary. We found our proper vehicle three rows over, where I had apparently parked it not twenty minutes earlier.

The drive to Puegnago sul Garda took us through countryside that already had me forgiving myself the car debacle. Rolling hills gave way to glimpses of the lake, that particular blue you only seem to get in this corner of Italy, and by the time we wound our way up to the property, I was properly excited. The place sat perched with views across the water, olive groves tumbling down the slopes, and that warm late-afternoon light that makes everything look like a film set.

We had arrived with grand plans, you see. I had researched walking routes with the enthusiasm of a man who owns too many Ordnance Survey maps. The weather forecast had promised sunshine and gentle breezes, perfect for coastal hikes along Lake Garda's western shore. I had packed my proper walking boots, the ones with the aggressive tread that make me feel faintly ridiculous on normal pavements. I was ready.

The first morning, we set off for a walk toward Salo, following a path that hugged the coastline. The lake glittered, little boats bobbed about, and I was in my element pointing out wildflowers I could not actually name. We made it perhaps forty minutes before the sky, which had been the colour of a Mediterranean postcard, suddenly turned the colour of old dishwater. The rain came down with what I can only describe as theatrical commitment. We scrambled back to a little cafe near the water, arriving soaked and ridiculous, and sat there with coffees watching our grand walking plans dissolve into the downpour.

That set the pattern for the first few days. The weather had developed a personality, and that personality was mischievous. Mornings would dawn glorious, tempting us out with clear skies and that particular warmth that makes you think summer has arrived properly. We would set off walking, following the old mule tracks that wind through the hills above the lake, passing through lemon groves and past little chapels tucked into the landscape. Then, inevitably, the clouds would gather with almost comic timing, and we would find ourselves ducking into doorways or under olive trees, laughing at our own optimism.

There was something rather lovely about it, though. We started planning our walks around the weather's moods rather than fighting them. Early starts became our habit, getting out while the day was still making up its mind. We found routes closer to the property, little circular walks through the vineyards and down to the water's edge, so we could retreat quickly if needed. One morning we walked down to the little harbour at Puegnago itself, watching fishermen prepare their boats, and managed a full two hours before the rain caught us in a little bar where the owner seemed genuinely delighted by our drenched arrival.

By the end of the week, I had accepted that my aggressive-tread boots were overkill for these gentler paths, and that perhaps I needed to be less of a planner and more of a opportunist. We had some glorious walks in golden light, and some memorable scrambles in sudden downpours, and I honestly could not tell you which I enjoyed more. The property became our refuge, somewhere to dry off and sit on the terrace with a glass of local wine, watching the weather perform its dramas across the lake.

I still maintain that silver car was asking to be mistaken for ours, though.