I have never been so relieved to see a sign for Fermo in my life. Three hours of driving from Ancona airport, my partner navigating with the confidence of someone who had definitely not mixed up "left" and "right" in Italian, and we finally spotted it. The mishap? I had spent the last forty minutes convinced we were heading towards the mountains instead of the coast, panicking quietly about my complete failure to pack walking boots with any actual ankle support. Turns out I cannot read a basic map. Turns out also that Marche's rolling hills look remarkably similar regardless of which direction you point a Fiat 500.

The property sat just outside the town, a converted farmhouse with that particular faded grandeur you only find in Italian countryside rentals. You know the sort. Terracotta tiles slightly mismatched. Shutters that need a firm shove. A swimming pool that gleams impossibly blue and makes every British person immediately feel underdressed. We arrived in late afternoon heat, the kind that wraps around you like a warm towel fresh from the radiator, and I stood there in my jeans wondering how I had managed to dress for a Yorkshire autumn.

Our plan had been ambitious. Coastal walks every morning, striding along the Adriatic like seasoned hikers, returning for late lunches and poolside recovery. The weather, naturally, had other ideas. The first morning brought a heat so dense and shimmering that my enthusiasm for a twelve-kilometre cliff path evaporated somewhere around the ten-minute mark. We made it to the Torre di Palme, that gorgeous medieval village perched above the sea, and I promptly declared that any further walking would constitute a genuine health risk. My partner raised an eyebrow. I bought a lemon granita and felt no shame whatsoever.

The weather shifted daily, which became the real story of the week. Hot mornings gave way to breezy afternoons, sudden cloud cover, then blazing sun again. We learned to read the sky like locals, or at least like enthusiastic amateurs. Tuesday looked promising for a proper hike, so we set off towards the Grottammare coastline, that stretch where the hills tumble into beaches and the pine trees offer actual salvation from the sun. We managed perhaps four kilometres before a storm rolled in with theatrical speed, black clouds gathering where moments before there had been nothing but blue. The lightning started somewhere near San Benedetto del Tronto. We sheltered under an olive grove and laughed like idiots, soaked and triumphant, until it passed.

By midweek I had abandoned any pretence of serious hiking. We walked early instead, catching the cool hours before breakfast, wandering the cobbled streets of Fermo itself, climbing up to the Duomo with the whole Adriatic spread below like a postcard we had somehow wandered inside. The cathedral square at that hour, empty of tourists, just local dogs and the occasional nonna sweeping her doorstep, felt like being let in on a secret. I found myself reflecting, standing there with a takeaway coffee that was genuinely excellent for once, on how rigid my holiday expectations usually are. Must walk this far. Must see this sight. Must achieve something photographable. The heat had forced a different rhythm, and I was surprised to find I preferred it.

The coastal paths we did manage, in stolen hours between storms and siestas, were magnificent in their own way. Not conquered, not ticked off a list, but wandered slowly, with frequent stops for swimming, for staring at fishing boats, for arguing about whether that particular rock formation looked more like a sleeping dog or my mother-in-law. The walking became punctuation between moments of doing very little indeed, which I suspect is the actual point of being in Marche in summer.

Our final morning, we attempted one last proper hike, setting off towards the Monte Conero direction though not nearly that far, just a local trail through farmland that smelled of sun-baked earth and wild fennel. The heat built steadily. We turned back early, bought peaches from a roadside stall, and ate them messily by the car. Perfect.

I came home with sand in my shoes, slightly more freckles than advisable, and a newfound appreciation for holidays that refuse to follow the itinerary. The walking boots stayed mostly in the case. I have no regrets.