I have never been to Molise before, and apparently neither has anyone else. That is the running joke, anyway. "Molise doesn't exist," people say, which is exactly why I decided to go there. I booked a stone farmhouse near Venafro, packed three novels I had been meaning to read for two years, and set off from Rome with a hire car full of optimism and slightly too many snacks.

The journey south should have been straightforward. It was not. Somewhere around Cassino I became convinced I knew a shortcut, which is always the beginning of a disaster. Twenty minutes later I was on a road barely wide enough for a determined goat, my phone insisting I was in a field, and a local nonna staring at me from her doorway with the kind of pity usually reserved for the very lost or the very foolish. I waved cheerfully. She did not wave back. I reversed for what felt like a mile until I found somewhere to turn around, then crept back to the main road with my dignity in tatters and my passenger-side wing mirror folded in permanently as a souvenir of my hubris.

By the time I reached the property I was frazzled, dusty, and in urgent need of something cold. The farmhouse sat among olive groves with a view down towards the valley, and the owners had left a bottle of local white wine in the fridge with a handwritten note. I poured a glass and stood on the terrace, and something in my shoulders unclenched for the first time in months. The afternoon light was that particular honeyed gold you only seem to get in central Italy, and the only sound was cicadas and the occasional clank of a distant sheep bell.

I had planned to be energetic. I had printed off lists of things to do, places to see, restaurants to try. They stayed in my bag. Instead I spent the first afternoon doing absolutely nothing beyond moving my chair to follow the shade. I opened the first novel, read three pages, and fell asleep. This set the pattern for the week.

Mornings became a ritual of slow coffee on the terrace, watching the light change over the hills. The property had a pool, and I used it not for exercise but for floating horizontally while contemplating whether I could justify a second breakfast. The answer was always yes, usually involving fresh bread from the bakery in Venafro and tomatoes that actually tasted of something.

I did venture out, but never far. The town itself is a pleasant wander, with a castle on the hill and a cathedral with an impressive bell tower that helpfully reminded me when I had lost track of time entirely. I found a small bar where the owner remembered my order after one visit and started pouring my spritz as I approached on the second. This felt like an achievement greater than any I had managed in months of office life.

One afternoon I walked to a nearby olive grove, not because I had any particular purpose but because the path looked inviting. I sat on a stone wall and watched a farmer working slowly and methodically among his trees, and I thought about how often I confuse busyness with purpose. The novel in my bag remained unopened. The thinking felt like enough.

Evenings were for simple cooking with local ingredients, or occasionally for driving ten minutes to a trattoria where the menu never changed and nobody was in a hurry. I ate pasta with beans, a local specialty that sounds plain and tastes like comfort itself. I drank more of that white wine. I went to bed early and slept better than I had in years.

The mishap with the shortcut became my favourite story from the trip, told now with laughter rather than embarrassment. It taught me nothing about navigation, but something about letting go of the need to optimise every journey. I arrived eventually. That was sufficient.

On my last morning I packed the novels, barely progressed, and felt no guilt whatsoever. They had served their purpose as companions rather than projects. I drove back to Rome without attempting any shortcuts, stopping once for coffee and once simply to look at the view. Molise, it turns out, exists quite contentedly without crowds or fuss, and I suspect I will be back to do very little in its sunshine again.