I have never been so grateful for a wonky sat nav in my life. There we were, two hours after landing at Brindisi, crawling down a dusty track that grew narrower with every turn, convinced we were about to become a local farmer's unexpected dinner guests. My partner Dave was gripping the steering wheel like he was landing a plane, muttering about how this was "definitely not the main road." I had been in charge of directions, which should tell you everything you need to know about how that was going.

The mishap, of course, was entirely my fault. In my enthusiasm to get us to our Carovigno holiday home, I had somehow managed to select "shortest route" rather than "fastest" on the hire car's ancient GPS system. What should have been a straightforward twenty-minute drive from the airport became a forty-five-minute adventure through olive groves that looked older than most British cathedrals. We bumped past stone walls crumbling with character, startled a dozen or so sun-bathing lizards, and at one point found ourselves face to face with a tractor whose driver seemed more amused than annoyed by our little Fiat Panda blocking his path.

But then we rounded the final bend, and there it was. Our whitewashed masseria sat glowing in the late afternoon sun, all thick stone walls and terracotta roof tiles, with a small pool glinting temptingly in the garden. The sort of place that makes you forgive yourself instantly for every wrong turn. Dave actually laughed out loud, which I took as a personal victory given his mood five minutes earlier.

We dumped our bags with the enthusiasm of people who had been travelling since dawn and immediately set about exploring on foot. The property sat on the edge of Carovigno proper, close enough to wander into town but surrounded by enough open land to feel properly rural. That first evening we walked down to the nearest coastal path, maybe twenty minutes through scrubby maquis and past low dry-stone walls. The light was doing that extraordinary golden thing it does in Puglia, turning everything slightly magical and making me feel like I had wandered into a film set without permission.

Our plan, hatched over many winter evenings back in Manchester, had been gloriously ambitious. We would walk the coastal trails every morning before the heat built, exploring south towards Torre Santa Sabina and north towards the nature reserve at Torre Guaceto. We had packed proper walking boots, sun hats with sensible brims, and enough enthusiasm to power a small village. The reality, we discovered rapidly, was that Puglia in late June had its own opinions about our schedule.

The first morning started perfectly. We rose early, made coffee in the little kitchen with its pleasingly wonky floor tiles, and set off along the coastal path by seven. The air smelled of wild thyme and salt, and we spotted a hoopoe flapping across the scrub with its ridiculous crest bouncing about. By nine, however, the temperature had climbed into territory that my pale British constitution considers frankly impolite. We made it to a tiny cove near Specchiolla, had a restorative swim, and then spent the return walk fantasising about the pool with an intensity that slightly alarmed us both.

That pattern established itself over the following days. We became experts at the dawn patrol, setting alarms for times that would have seemed absurd at home, walking fast while the air still carried a hint of coolness from the night. By ten, we would be back at the masseria, collapsing into the pool with the satisfaction of people who had earned their laziness. The afternoons became strictly for reading in patches of shade, occasionally moving chairs to follow the shadows like sunflowers in reverse.

One morning we pushed our luck, attempting a longer loop towards the Riserva Naturale Torre Guaceto. The reserve itself was closed to casual walkers, but the coastal path skirted its edges through stunning terrain of ancient olive groves giving way to rocky shoreline. We carried three litres of water between us and still ran dangerously low. I developed a newfound respect for the local shepherds we occasionally spotted, who moved through this landscape with the unhurried pace of people who understand something fundamental about heat that we clearly did not. Dave's face went an interesting shade of puce that I diplomatically chose not to mention until we were safely back and rehydrated.

The weather forced a kind of humility upon us that I found unexpectedly valuable. I am not naturally an early riser, nor someone who adjusts plans gracefully. But there was something about that landscape, so generous in its morning coolness and so uncompromising by midday, that taught me to pay attention rather than simply push through. We started noticing things we would have missed at a faster pace: the way the light caught the silver undersides of olive leaves, the particular sound of cicadas starting up as the temperature climbed, the smell of wild fennel crushed underfoot.

Our final morning walk took us to a stretch of coast we had saved deliberately, a rocky promontory near Torre Santa Sabina where the water turned improbable shades of turquoise. We sat on sun-warmed limestone and watched fishermen preparing their small boats, their movements unhurried, their timing clearly attuned to rhythms older than any tourist itinerary. I thought about our first arrival, so flustered and lost, and how different everything felt now. The sat nav mishap had set a tone I had not appreciated at the time: this was a place that rewarded patience, that asked you to slow down and notice rather than rush towards some predetermined goal.

We left the next day, driving back to Brindisi with the air conditioning on full blast and a bag of local taralli crunching away between us. I checked the GPS settings three times before we set off. Some lessons, it turns out, do stick.