I have never been more grateful to see a set of keys in a rusted tin box than I was last Tuesday at half past six in the evening. The journey from Manchester to Baveno had taken the best part of fourteen hours, thanks to a delayed flight to Milan, a hire car that smelled distinctly of wet dog, and my own spectacular failure to operate a simple Italian petrol pump.

The mishap, then. Picture this: a small village forecourt somewhere near Arona, me wrestling with a nozzle that appeared to require a PhD in engineering, and a sudden fountain of unleaded spraying directly across my only clean pair of trousers. An elderly gentleman in a Fiat Panda watched the entire performance without changing expression, then wound down his window to offer a single word of advice: "Pazienza." Patience. I stood there in my petrol-soaked chinos, smelling like a garage forecourt, and decided this was exactly the sort of character-building moment my therapist would later describe as "a growth opportunity."

The final stretch along Lake Maggiore's western shore almost made up for it. The water had turned that particular silver-pink that comes just before sunset, and the Borromean Islands sat in the middle distance like props from a particularly lavish opera. Baveno itself announced itself with pastel villas, a promenade of pollarded plane trees, and the kind of hush that only descends on lakeside towns when the day-trippers have finally gone home.

Finding the property meant navigating a narrow lane that climbed steeply from the lakefront, my too-wide hire car grazing bougainvillea on one side and ancient stone walls on the other. The rusted tin box was exactly where the email had promised, tucked behind a terracotta pot containing what I initially took to be a decorative shrub but which, on closer inspection, proved to be an extremely vigorous rosemary plant that had achieved small tree status.

The first impression of the villa itself was of something that had settled comfortably into the hillside decades ago and saw no particular reason to make a fuss about it. A covered terrace ran along the front, supported by columns that looked original and slightly wonky. The paint was that particular faded terracotta that manages to look simultaneously neglected and absolutely perfect. I fumbled the key, dropped it twice, and finally shouldered my way through a door that stuck slightly in the humidity.

Inside, the place smelled of stone and old wood and something faintly citrus, probably the cleaning products. The living area opened directly onto that terrace through glass doors, and I understood immediately why the photographs had emphasised this view. The lake spread below, now deep violet in the fading light, with the lights of Stresa beginning to prick on across the water. I stood there in my petrol-scented trousers, my shoulders still aching from the drive, my stomach making noises that suggested fourteen hours without a proper meal was perhaps too long, and felt something loosen in my chest that I had not realised was tight.

The kitchen was compact, clearly designed by someone who actually cooks rather than someone who designs kitchens. A small basket sat on the counter containing local wine, some breadsticks, and a handwritten note wishing me a pleasant stay in slightly shaky English. I opened the wine with the kind of desperate enthusiasm that comes from knowing you have earned it, carried a glass out to the terrace, and watched a solitary boat make its way across the lake with a purposeful chug.

A gecko appeared on the wall beside me, observed my presence with what I chose to interpret as companionable interest, and proceeded to consume a moth with evident satisfaction. I decided we were going to get along. The church bells from somewhere below struck seven, then continued for a full five minutes in that enthusiastic Italian way that suggests the bell-ringer is having rather more fun than strictly necessary.

My trousers still smelled of petrol. My phone showed seventeen unread work emails. I had no idea where to buy milk in the morning. I sat there with my cheap wine and my gecko and my slightly wonky view of one of the most beautiful lakes in Europe, and I laughed out loud at the ridiculous improbability of having arrived here at all.