I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me through what looked like someone's olive grove. There we were, my partner and I, bumping along a gravel track in our hire car, convinced we'd found a shortcut to Montefiore Dell'Aso. We hadn't. What we'd found was a very confused farmer, three dogs with opinions, and the realisation that March in Marche means mud. Glorious, tyre-spinning, utterly unforgiving mud.

By the time we reached the property, the car looked like we'd entered it in a rally. The stone farmhouse sat perched on its hillside, all terracotta roof and weathered walls, looking rather pleased with itself in the late afternoon light. April might bring wildflowers and manageable lanes, but late March? March gives you drama. The air still carried winter's sharpness, yet the sun had that particular quality of early spring, low and golden, making everything look slightly more cinematic than reality strictly allows.

Our host emerged from the arched doorway, remarkably unfazed by our mud-splattered arrival. She'd seen worse, clearly. The season had kept the holiday crowds at bay, which meant we had the pool entirely to ourselves, though "to ourselves" translated to "staring at it longingly while wearing two jumpers." The water was that particular shade of turquoise that mockingly suggests warmth. It lied. Beautifully, convincingly, but it lied.

The farmhouse itself wrapped around a central courtyard where a lemon tree sat in a terracotta pot, looking optimistic about the improving weather. I found this touching. The kitchen opened onto a covered terrace, and here the season revealed its proper generosity. Evenings were cool enough to need the wool blanket from the sofa, yet mild enough to sit outside with a glass of Verdicchio, watching the light fade across the rolling hills. The local wine shops were doing brisk trade with people like us, refugees from British drizzle seeking something that tasted of actual sunshine.

Mornings brought mist that pooled in the valley below, burning off by mid-morning to reveal the patchwork of fields and woodland. The walking paths were properly muddy, the kind that sucks at your boots and makes you feel faintly heroic for simply reaching the village bakery. Montefiore Dell'Aso itself sat just down the hill, its medieval walls catching the morning light, the baker already pulling out warm ciabatta that made the muddy trek entirely worthwhile.

I kept thinking how different this would feel in high summer, when the pool would be essential rather than ornamental, when the terraces would buzz with other guests, when the olive groves would shimmer with heat haze. There was something about this in-between season, though, that suited my mood perfectly. The region wasn't performing for tourists; it was simply getting on with the business of becoming spring. You could feel the land waking up, the vines being pruned, the first brave asparagus pushing through.

One evening, attempting to light the wood-fired pizza oven with more enthusiasm than skill, I produced more smoke than heat. My partner retreated indoors, claiming something about "checking the wine levels." I stood there, eyes streaming, and had one of those moments of clarity that holidays sometimes grant. Here I was, middle-aged and slightly singed, in a place I'd never heard of two months prior, failing at something simple while surrounded by extraordinary beauty. The season mirrored this perfectly, not quite one thing or another, still figuring itself out.

The fire eventually caught. The pizza was, if I'm generous, rustic. We ate it on the terrace as the temperature dropped, wrapped in blankets, watching the first stars appear through the still-bare branches of the oak trees.

Spring in Marche doesn't shout. It murmurs promises of what's coming, hands you unexpected warmth between the chill, and leaves you slightly mud-stained but rather content. I wouldn't have it any other way.