I should have known the holiday was going to be character-building when I tried to unlock the wrong Barolo. There we were, knackered after the drive from Turin, standing in the afternoon heat of Piedmont while I confidently jammed the key into a neighbour's door and wondered aloud why the lock had apparently changed since the photos were taken. My other half, who had been dozing in the passenger seat for the last hour, opened one eye and pointed twenty metres down the lane. Right house. Wrong door. The neighbour, an elderly chap in gardening trousers, watched the whole performance from his window without a flicker of surprise. I like to think he has seen worse.

The actual property, when we finally reached it, turned out to be the sort of place that rewards patience. A solid stone house with terracotta roof tiles that have probably baked in this sunshine since before my grandmother was born. The garden was already doing that shimmering thing, all dry grass and lavender and the distant hum of something insect-related. I dumped the bags, found a sun-lounger that creaked alarmingly under my weight, and essentially did not move for the next four hours.

That first afternoon set the tone for the entire week. I had brought three books, ambitious plans for local walks, and a vague intention to learn something about wine. What actually happened was a masterclass in doing very little, very slowly, in very pleasant surroundings. The garden had this magical quality of trapping warmth without ever becoming oppressive. I would shift from lounger to a wooden chair under the fig tree, then back again, occasionally making the monumental effort to refill my water glass from the kitchen. The books got read, but in a desultory fashion, a chapter here, a nap there, sometimes the same paragraph twice because the sunshine had made my brain pleasantly gluey.

The village of Barolo itself is barely a stroll away, though stroll implies more purpose than I generally managed. I would wander down in the late morning, when the heat had properly settled, and treat the whole expedition as a major undertaking. A coffee at the bar, perhaps a pastry if I was feeling decadent. Then the slow climb back up, stopping to admire the same view I had admired the day before, and the day before that. The vineyards roll out in every direction, all organised rows and green geometry, and I never tired of looking at them even though I could not tell you a Nebbiolo from a Nero d'Avola without checking my phone.

There was a moment, perhaps day four, when I caught myself feeling guilty about this magnificent laziness. Everyone else seemed to be cycling the wine routes or visiting castles or learning to make tajarin pasta from nonnas in nearby villages. I had done none of these things. I had eaten bread and tomatoes in the garden, read half a mediocre thriller, and developed an intimate relationship with a particular sun-lounger. Then I looked up at the blue sky, felt the warmth on my arms, and decided that guilt was simply too much effort. The whole point of leaving home, I told myself, is occasionally to discover that your natural pace is slower than you allowed it to be.

The gentlest exploration suited me perfectly. A morning potter to the bakery, an evening amble to watch the light change over the vines. I found a bench on the edge of the village that became my unofficial territory, visited at roughly the same time each day until I half-believed the locals were timing their dog walks around my schedule. They were not, obviously. I was not that significant. But the illusion was comforting.

By the final day, my other half had taken to calling me the lizard, on account of my sun-seeking behaviour and general lack of movement. I did not mind. The wrong-door incident at the start felt like it had happened to someone else, someone still caught up in the need to get things right. I left the key in the proper lock this time, gave the neighbour a wave that he did not return, and drove away already planning which book to bring next year.