I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I spent twenty minutes arguing with a sat nav that insisted Trecastagni was pronounced "Tre-cast-AG-nee." Turns out it's more like "Treh-cah-STAH-nyee," but by that point I'd already made a fool of myself at the petrol station asking for directions. The bloke behind the counter just smiled and pointed vaguely toward Mount Etna, which loomed in the distance like a grumpy giant checking its watch.

The drive from Catania airport had been straightforward enough, if you consider navigating Sicilian roundabouts straightforward. I don't. I'd collected my hire car, a Fiat 500 that felt approximately the size of a roller skate, and immediately discovered that my suitcase wouldn't fit in the boot. Cue me driving through the Sicilian countryside with a large purple case wedged against the passenger window, occasionally glimpsing olive groves through a mesh of nylon and zips.

The mishap, when it came, was spectacularly small and stupid. I'd stopped at a bakery in a village whose name I never did catch, seduced by the smell of warm bread and the sight of cannoli glistening in the morning light. I bought two, plus a slab of cassata that could have fed a family of four, and returned to the car feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. It was only when I reached the holiday home that I realised I'd left my sunglasses on the bakery counter. My prescription sunglasses. The ones I need for driving. The ones that cost more than the flight.

I stood in the gravel driveway, cannoli in one hand, squinting at the most spectacular view I'd ever seen. Mount Etna dominated everything, its upper slopes still holding streaks of snow despite the warmth below. The house itself sat among terraced gardens, all dry stone walls and citrus trees heavy with fruit. Lemon, I think, though my knowledge of citrus is roughly on par with my knowledge of Sicilian place names.

The owner had left the key in a lockbox with a code that worked on the third attempt, after I'd tried the year of my birth, my mother's birthday, and finally the actual code they'd sent me. The door opened with a satisfying creak onto cool tile floors and whitewashed walls. Simple, clean, unpretentious. A kitchen that looked like someone actually cooked in it, with a proper stove and a fridge that hummed contentedly. I dumped my bags, still muttering about the sunglasses, and wandered through to the terrace.

That's when the argument with myself began in earnest. Here I was, standing above the Ionian coast with Etna on one side and the glittering sea on the other, in a house that smelled faintly of lemon and old stone, and I was sulking about a pair of specs. The terrace had a table, chairs, a view that people presumably pay serious money for, and all I could think about was whether that bakery would still be open if I drove back now.

I didn't drive back. I sat down instead, on a chair that wobbled slightly on the uneven tiles, and ate one of the cannoli. The pastry shattered perfectly. The ricotta was sweet and grainy with chocolate chips. A lizard darted across the wall behind me, paused to judge my life choices, and disappeared into a crack.

The light changed while I sat there, the afternoon softening into something golden and forgiving. I could see down to the coast, to where Trecastagni's terracotta roofs clustered together, and beyond to the flat blue stripe of the sea. Somewhere a dog barked, then stopped. Church bells rang, though whether for the hour or a wedding I couldn't say.

My suitcase still sat in the car, purple and ridiculous. The cassata was probably melting. I had no sunglasses, a wobbly chair, and a sat nav that would definitely mispronounce everything on the way back to that bakery tomorrow. But I also had this: a quiet terrace, a finished cannoli, and the growing realisation that some mishaps are just invitations to sit still for a moment and let a place settle around you.

I fetched the cassata. The chair wobbled again. Etna watched, patient and enormous, while I ate far too much and decided that tomorrow's problems could wait for tomorrow.