I have never been so grateful to see a gravel driveway in all my life. After seven hours of driving from Turin airport, a wrong turn that took us through someone's vineyard, and an unfortunate incident with a toll barrier that I am still trying to forget, we finally crunched to a halt outside our Bollengo. My partner was not speaking to me. I had been navigating. The less said about that, the better.

The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Not the awkward, tense quiet of the car, but a proper, deep stillness broken only by bees and the occasional distant church bell. Our holiday home sat among rolling hills with the sort of view that makes you immediately want to do absolutely nothing with it. This was convenient, as doing nothing was precisely the plan.

I had packed four novels, two of which I had been meaning to read since 2019. There they sat in my bag, practically trembling with anticipation. The garden had a terrace with a wobbly wooden table, two sun-bleached chairs, and an umbrella that required what I can only describe as aggressive coaxing to stay open. By the time I wrestled it into submission, I needed a sit down. This set the tone rather nicely.

The following days settled into a rhythm so gentle it barely qualified as rhythm at all. Mornings began with coffee from a stovetop pot, the kind that hisses at you like a displeased cat, eaten with bread from the bakery in Bollengo village proper. We would wander down there most days, a twenty-minute stroll that felt like walking through a postcard. The baker recognised us by day three, which I took as a personal triumph despite requiring no actual effort on my part.

Afternoons were for horizontal purposes. I read on the terrace until the words began to swim, then moved to a hammock that had definitely seen better decades and read some more. My partner dozed. The dog from the neighbouring farm trotted over occasionally to judge our life choices. We accepted this judgement with grace.

I should mention that I did attempt one brisk walk, inspired by a leaflet about local trails. I made it approximately four hundred metres before discovering a bench with exceptional shade properties and remaining there for two hours. Some people have the discipline for hiking. I have the discipline for sitting very still and watching clouds change shape. We all have gifts.

The village itself offered just enough distraction to feel virtuous without disturbing the essential laziness. A small church with a clock that ran five minutes slow, which I found rather endearing. A bar where elderly gentlemen played cards with the intensity of international chess masters. An afternoon when we bought peaches from a farm gate and ate them over the sink, juice running down our wrists, competing to see who could be more undignified.

By the end of the week, I had finished one and a half novels, acquired a sunburn of spectacular stupidity on my left shoulder, and achieved what I can only describe as a state of advanced uselessness. My thoughts had slowed to match the pace of the place. I found myself staring at lizards for uncomfortable lengths of time. I had opinions about the quality of different olive oils, despite knowing nothing about olive oil.

The mishap with the toll barrier, as it turned out, was worth it. Though I still maintain it was poorly signposted, and my partner still maintains I should learn to read Italian, or at least slow down. We have agreed to disagree, preferably somewhere with another wobbly table and a view of nothing much happening at all.