I have never been so grateful to see a stone wall in my life. Twelve hours after leaving Manchester, three trains, one extremely questionable airport sandwich, and a hire car that smelled faintly of wet dog and regret, I finally pulled up outside the Cagli property. The sat nav had given up three miles back, apparently offended by the winding lanes, and I had been navigating by instinct and a screenshot I had taken in a hurry at Gatwick. Not my finest travel moment, that screenshot. I had managed to crop out the actual house number and most of the road name, leaving me with what looked like a blurry photograph of a tree and the word "left."

The mishap, though. I must tell you about the mishap. Somewhere between Ancona airport and the first rolling hill, I had convinced myself that Italian petrol pumps worked exactly like British ones. They do not. They absolutely do not. I stood there for a good ten minutes, card in hand, pressing buttons and muttering apologies to a queue of increasingly unimpressed locals, before a kind elderly gentleman took pity on me and performed some mysterious ritual involving a prepaid card from the shop. I emerged with a full tank, a receipt I could not read, and the certain knowledge that I had just paid approximately twice what I should have. Still, I told myself, this is character building. This is the authentic experience. This is why I do not read instruction manuals.

The approach to the property itself almost made me forget the petrol debacle. Almost. The lane narrowed to the point where I found myself holding my breath, convinced I would scrape the hedgerows on both sides simultaneously. Olive trees lined the way, their silver-green leaves catching the late afternoon light, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked with the lazy enthusiasm of an animal that has never once worried about petrol pumps. The hills rolled away in every direction, patchworked with fields and woods, and I felt that particular loosening in my shoulders that only comes after a long journey when you finally realise you have arrived somewhere properly rural.

The house sat at the end of a short gravel track, more substantial than I had expected from the photographs, with warm stone walls and wooden shutters that had faded to that particular soft grey you only seem to find in countries with proper summers. A covered terrace ran along one side, and I could see a barbecue and a long table that immediately suggested evenings with wine and not much of a plan. The pool glinted turquoise in the corner of the garden, surrounded by grass that looked recently cut and a few strategically placed loungers.

I stepped out of the car and my left foot went straight into a pothole I had somehow failed to notice. Not a dramatic fall, nothing worthy of medical attention, just a slight stumble and a muttered word that was definitely not Italian. I stood there, one foot slightly damp from whatever had collected in that hole, and laughed. Properly laughed, for the first time since Manchester. The air smelled of cut grass and woodsmoke and something herbal I could not identify. A swallow dipped past the terrace. Somewhere a church bell marked the hour with the unhurried pace of a place that has never rushed for anyone.

I had arrived. I was slightly damp, significantly overcharged for petrol, in possession of a hire car that still smelled of dog, and I had never been more pleased to be anywhere in my life.