I have never been so relieved to see a farmhouse in my life. After six hours of driving from Ancona Airport, complete with a sat-nav that seemed convinced Marche was actually in Sardinia, I finally rolled up to what I hoped was our holiday let in Mogliano. It was not. I had, in classic British fashion, confused two identically named farmhouses and was now standing in someone's olive grove, grinning apologetically at a very confused nonna who was carrying an improbably large zucchini.

Twenty minutes of broken Italian and increasingly desperate hand gestures later, I found the actual place. The real Mogliano property sat perched on a gentle hillside, all honey-coloured stone and terracotta pots, with views that instantly made the sat-nav debacle feel like a minor character-building exercise. The nonna's zucchini, however, would haunt my dreams.

I had arrived in late May with grand plans for serious coastal hiking. The Conero Peninsula was calling, those famous white cliffs and turquoise coves that everyone raves about. I had packed proper walking boots, moisture-wicking socks, the lot. I was going to be the sort of person who stride purposefully along sentieri with a sensible hat and a knowing nod for fellow enthusiasts.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

The first morning dawned at thirty-two degrees. Not the dry, manageable heat I had anticipated, but that particular Italian humidity that wraps around you like a warm, slightly damp blanket. I set off anyway, because I am British and we have a complicated relationship with weather. The path from Sirolo down to the beaches looked straightforward enough on the map. Two hours later, I was sheltering under a pine tree, having consumed my entire water supply and developed what I can only describe as an intimate relationship with my own sweat.

I retreated to a beach bar and sat there with a granita, watching proper Italians stroll past looking effortlessly composed. A man in linen trousers and leather sandals walked by with a small dog. Neither appeared to be perspiring. I hated them both a little bit, mostly out of envy.

The heatwave persisted for three days. My ambitious coastal trek from Portonovo to Mezzavalle became a gentle morning wander to the nearest gelateria, followed by a tactical retreat to the farmhouse's shaded terrace. I read two novels, drank alarming quantities of local Verdicchio, and slowly adjusted to the rhythm of doing very little very slowly. The boots sat in the corner of the room, silently judgmental.

By day four, something shifted. The temperature dropped to a mere twenty-eight degrees, which felt practically arctic by comparison. I set out early, properly early, catching the golden morning light along the clifftop paths above Numana. The Adriatic glittered below, that particular shade of blue that makes you understand why people paint. I walked for hours, stopping to watch fishermen sorting their nets, to breathe in the wild rosemary and thyme that scented the air, to simply stand on limestone cliffs and feel pleasantly insignificant.

That evening, back on the terrace with another glass of wine, I watched the swallows darting through the amber light. The nonna's zucchini, I realised, had been a gift. Not the vegetable itself, though I suspect it would have made excellent soup, but the gentle humiliation of getting lost, of plans going sideways, of arriving flustered and ridiculous. It had forced me to let go of the person I thought I should be on holiday, the serious hiker with sensible socks, and accept the person I actually was: slightly disorganised, easily defeated by humidity, and perfectly happy reading novels in the shade.

I did eventually complete a proper coastal walk, all the way from Sirolo to the Due Sorelle rocks, arriving triumphant and only moderately sunburned. But it was the unexpected, unplanned days that stayed with me, the ones where I learned that sometimes the best adventure is simply surrendering to where you are, zucchini mishaps and all.