I have never been a natural navigator, which is why my sat nav and I ended up in a heated argument somewhere between Ancona and the rolling hills of Marche. The thing had decided that a dirt track through an olive grove was definitely the right way to Montefiore Dell'Aso, and I, being a trusting soul, followed it until I found myself staring at a very confused goat. The goat looked at me. I looked at the goat. Neither of us knew what to do next. I reversed for what felt like half a mile, got properly stuck, and had to be rescued by a passing farmer who found the whole thing hilarious. He waved me off with a grin and a handful of cherries he had just picked. That was my first taste of Marche hospitality, and honestly, it set the tone rather perfectly.

By the time I actually found the property, I was dusty, slightly embarrassed, and absolutely ready for a glass of something cold. The place sits among gentle hills that seem to fold into each other like layers of green fabric, with cypress trees standing to attention along the lanes. The house itself is one of those solid stone buildings that looks as though it has been there forever and fully intends to stay. Terracotta pots by the door, shutters that have faded to that particular powdery blue you only seem to find in Italy, and a view that made me forget entirely about the goat incident.

I dumped my bags and did what any sensible person would do. I went for a wander with absolutely no plan. This turned out to be the best decision of the entire trip. The village of Montefiore Dell'Aso itself is small enough that you cannot really get lost in the traditional sense, but I managed it anyway. I took a left where I should have taken a right, found myself on a narrow path between two old walls, and emerged in a tiny piazza I never would have found on purpose. An elderly man was sitting on a bench in the late afternoon sun, and we had one of those conversations that happens entirely through gestures and goodwill since my Italian stretches to about twelve words and his English was roughly equal. He pointed me toward a bakery that does bread only on Thursday mornings, and I made a mental note that turned into one of the highlights of my stay. That bread, still warm, eaten on a wall overlooking the valley, was worth every wrong turn.

The next morning I set out deliberately to get lost. I drove down lanes that grew progressively narrower until they became little more than tracks between fields of sunflowers. I found a vineyard where the owner was happy to let me taste his Verdicchio and tell me about the soil in far more detail than I could follow. I found a ruined chapel half hidden by brambles, its door hanging off, its interior surprisingly peaceful. I sat there for twenty minutes and did not see another soul.

There is something deeply satisfying about discovering things by accident. No guidebook, no recommendation, no carefully planned itinerary. Just the quiet thrill of turning a corner and finding something that feels like it belongs to you alone. A fountain in a courtyard where no one was watching. A view through a gap in a hedge that stopped me mid-step. A small shop selling local honey where the woman running it insisted I try three kinds before I bought any.

By the end of my stay, I had a collection of these moments, none of them famous, none of them in any tourist brochure. They were simply mine, gathered up like pebbles on a beach. I left with dusty shoes, a slightly better sense of direction, and the firm belief that sometimes the goat knows more than the sat nav.