I should have known the sat nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me down what looked like a goat track somewhere north of Milan. Three hours of driving from Bergamo, two wrong turns, and one spectacularly ill-judged attempt to squeeze through a gap between stone walls that was definitely not designed for a British family hatchback, and I finally admitted defeat. I rang the local contact, muttering apologies in my best phrasebook Italian, which turned out to be less "charming tourist" and more "confused toddler asking for directions to the zoo."

The mishap that really crowned the journey, though, happened ten minutes from the property. I'd stopped at a little lakeside petrol station to stretch my legs and promptly managed to lock the keys in the boot while retrieving my jacket. There I stood, in the late afternoon sun, watching my phone battery tick down to four percent, wondering if this was how all those "idyllic Italian escape" articles actually began. A very patient local man with a length of wire and what I can only describe as the air of someone who had seen this many times before, had me back on the road within twenty minutes. I gave him a packet of custard creams I'd brought from home. He looked baffled but accepted them with grace.

The approach to the property itself almost made me forget the chaos. The road wound through olive groves and past glimpses of water that caught the light in that particular way Lake Iseo does, somewhere between silver and green. I had chosen this area deliberately, wanting something quieter than Como or Garda, somewhere that felt less like a postcard and more like an actual place where actual Italians lived their lives. The village of Gianico sits on the western shore, unassuming and steep, with houses climbing up from the water as if competing for the best view.

I found the turning, narrower than I remembered from the photographs, and eased the car down a slope that made my stomach lurch. The property sat there, a solid stone building with terracotta roof tiles that had probably weathered a century of lake winters. My first thought, embarrassingly, was that it looked exactly like the pictures, which sounds obvious but never feels guaranteed after a long day of travel.

The key was in the lockbox as promised. I fumbled with the code, still slightly flustered, and stepped inside to that particular hush that old houses have. Cool stone floors, wooden beams darkened with age, and a faint smell of lavender from somewhere. I stood in the hallway with my ridiculous wheelie bag and just breathed. The lake was visible through the kitchen window, framed by shutters that needed a fresh coat of paint but somehow looked perfect for it.

I made the rookie error of immediately trying to explore every room, flitting from the terrace to the bedrooms to the small garden with its lemon trees in pots. Each space demanded attention, each view seemed to shift with the changing light. I found myself standing on the upper balcony as the sun began to drop behind the mountains, watching a ferry make its slow crossing towards Monte Isola, and I laughed out loud at the sheer relief of having arrived, of the keys being in my hand rather than in a locked boot somewhere down the road.

I had not eaten since breakfast. I had not unpacked. I had, I realised, been holding my shoulders somewhere near my ears for approximately nine hours. And yet standing there, with the evening breeze coming off the water and the distant sound of someone calling across a garden below, I felt something loosen. The mishaps had become stories already. The wrong turns had shown me corners of this place I would never have found otherwise. The custard creams were probably being discussed in that petrol station still.

I went inside eventually, found the kettle, and made a cup of tea with the bag of Yorkshire Gold I had smuggled in my hand luggage. Some habits travel better than sat navs. I sat on the terrace as darkness gathered, listening to the lake, and allowed myself the first proper moment of stillness in months.