The sat nav gave up on us somewhere between Bari airport and Ostuni, which I suppose is what you get for trusting a gadget that thinks a tractor track is a shortcut. We ended up down a lane so narrow that my other half had to fold in the wing mirrors and breathe in. A local nonna watched us from her doorway with the kind of expression you reserve for tourists who have clearly made a terrible life choice. We waved cheerfully. She did not wave back.

By the time we found the place, I was ready to abandon the hire car and walk the rest of the way barefoot. But then the gates opened, and there it was: a proper Puglian masseria, all creamy stone and shady corners, with a pool that winked at us in the afternoon light. The owners had left a bottle of Primitivo and some taralli on the kitchen counter, which I took as a peace offering from the universe for our navigational suffering.

I am not too proud to admit that the first twenty-four hours were spent doing almost nothing at all. We had grand plans, of course. Ostuni's famous white old town was barely ten minutes away. The beaches of the Adriatic were within easy reach. There were trulli to photograph, olive oil to taste, markets to browse. Instead, I read three chapters of a novel by the pool, got cramp from swimming too leisurely, and fell asleep on a sun lounger with a magazine over my face. My other half made a salad from tomatoes that actually tasted of something, which in Britain would qualify as a minor miracle.

The villa itself was the sort of place that encourages this kind of behaviour. Thick walls that kept the heat at bay, a terrace where you could sit with coffee and watch swallows dart about, rooms that smelled faintly of lavender and old stone. I kept finding little spots to settle with a book: the hammock under the pine tree, a window seat in the upstairs bedroom, a shady patch by the pool where the bougainvillea dripped over the wall. Each seemed more suited to dozing than the last.

On our second morning, we did manage a stroll into Ostuni's centro storico, though I use the word "stroll" loosely. It was more of an amble, really, with frequent stops for espresso and animated debates about whether we preferred the cathedral square or the view from the city walls. We bought some local ceramics, mainly because the shopkeeper was charming and I am a sucker for handmade plates I do not need. Then we retreated to the villa by midday, because the heat had turned sensible exploration into something approaching effort, and effort was not on the itinerary.

I have always been the sort of person who returns from holiday needing another holiday to recover from the sightseeing. This time, something shifted. Perhaps it was the wine at lunch, or the way the afternoons stretched out like warm honey, or simply the realisation that doing very little is, in fact, doing something worthwhile. I finished two books. I learned to identify the moment when the sun hit the terrace just so, perfect for an aperitivo. I had conversations with my other half that wandered nowhere in particular, the kind you forget to have when life gets busy.

The mishap with the sat nav feels like the right metaphor, looking back. We took the wrong turn, ended up somewhere unexpected, and discovered that getting lost has its compensations. The nonna probably knew it all along.