I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey from Bergamo Airport to our holiday let in Sarnico had been going swimmingly until the final three miles, when dear old Sheila, as we had named her, decided that what this narrow lakeside road really needed was a detour through what I can only describe as someones vegetable patch. There was a moment, tyres crunching on gravel, a very alarmed chicken making its feelings known, where I caught my wifes eye and we both knew this was either going to be hilarious or the start of a very long week.

It was late April when we travelled, that awkward shoulder season when Lombardy cannot quite decide if it is still winter or ready to commit to spring. The olive groves wore a tentative green, and the air carried that particular damp-earth smell that makes you want to breathe deeper than is strictly polite in company. We had chosen this time deliberately, seduced by lower prices and the promise of fewer tourists, though I am not sure either of us fully understood what fewer tourists actually meant until we arrived.

The property sat above Lake Iseo, not the famous one, not Como or Garda with their celebrity spotting and coach parties, but the smaller, slightly shyer sibling that Italians seem to keep for themselves. Our terrace looked south over water that changed colour three times before we had even unpacked the car, grey-green in morning cloud, then suddenly silver when the sun broke through around eleven, and finally that deep blue that makes you understand why painters lose their minds over this part of the world. The April light had a watery quality, never quite achieving the harsh brilliance of summer, which meant everything appeared slightly softened, as though viewed through clean but old glass.

That first afternoon, we walked down to Sarnico itself, a fifteen-minute stroll that became twenty because I kept stopping to photograph wisteria that was just beginning its annual takeover of garden walls. The town had that delicious emptiness of places not yet in season. A few locals sat outside bars with coats still buttoned, drinking espresso with the unhurried pace of people who have nowhere particular to be. We found a bakery where the woman spoke no English and my Italian extends to ordering beer and apologising, which led to a pointing expedition involving much smiling and an accidental purchase of something containing anchovies that I ate anyway out of politeness. It was delicious, which felt like a small victory over my own timidity.

The evenings were the real revelation. By six oclock, a chill descended that sent us inside for sweaters, then by seven-thirty we were lighting the wood burner that dominated the living room. There is something wonderfully theatrical about a real fire, something that makes you sit slightly straighter and speak in more measured tones. We cooked simple pasta with butter and sage from the garden, drank local Franciacorta because when in Rome, or rather when twenty minutes from Brescia, and went to bed early with the satisfied exhaustion of people who have done very little but felt it deeply.

I had worried, I will admit, about choosing April. Would everything be closed? Would we spend the week staring at shuttered restaurants and deserted beaches? The reality was more nuanced. Some places were indeed hibernating, their chairs stacked, their awnings furled. But others were preparing, painting, planting, that particular energy of opening up that feels more hopeful than the full swing of high season somehow. We watched a man repaint his restaurant sign one morning, methodical and unhurried, and when we returned three days later he remembered us, waved us in, produced antipasti that tasted of patience and good oil.

The rain came on our fourth day, proper persistent stuff that lashed the lake into grey agitation and turned our terrace into a no-mans-land. We spent it reading, dozing, occasionally braving the downpour to bring in more wood. My wife observed that this was probably what the house was actually for, this enforced stillness, and I think she was right. In July we would have felt guilty, would have forced ourselves out for the sake of it, would have come back sandy and sunburned and slightly resentful. In April, the weather gave us permission to simply be where we were.

By our final morning, the wisteria seemed fuller than when we had arrived, and the forecast promised twenty degrees by the weekend. We packed sadly, already half-planning a return, and I found myself strangely grateful to Sheila for her agricultural detour. Without it, we would have arrived earlier, more efficiently, and missed the light hitting the lake at that particular angle, the moment that made my wife gasp and reach for my hand. The wrong turn had made us late, and lateness had made us lucky.

Driving back to Bergamo, olive groves now definitely greener than when we had come, I realised something about myself and shoulder seasons, about my tendency to chase peak experiences and miss the subtle pleasures of transition. I am not sure I will entirely reform, but I will certainly look at April differently from now on, and at sat navs too, and at the particular courage it takes to visit places before they are quite ready for you.