I should have known the satnav was up to no good when it tried to send us through what looked like someone's olive grove. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, there we were, bumping down a gravel track in our hire car, convinced we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere around Pisa. My partner Dave was gripping the wheel like his life depended on it, and I was doing that thing where you pretend to be calm while quietly contemplating whether we'd end up sleeping in the car.

The mishap, though. I need to tell you about the mishap. We'd stopped at a services just outside Lucca for a coffee and what Dave optimistically called a "comfort break." In my jet-lagged state, I managed to leave my phone on the roof of the car. Not inside. On top. We drove for a good ten minutes before a helpful motorist flagged us down, gesturing wildly at his own head. I honestly thought he was having some kind of episode. Then I saw my phone, still clinging on for dear life, skittering across the roof like a caffeinated crab. It survived, by the way. Italian engineering, apparently, extends to iPhone aerodynamics.

Anyway. Camaiore. We finally found the place just as the light was starting to turn that particular golden colour that makes Tuscany look like everyone's Instagram feed come to life. The property sat up a gentle slope, surrounded by cypress trees and what I later learned were acres of vineyard. From the outside, it had that weathered stone look that no amount of money can fake. The sort of place that makes you feel slightly underdressed in your travel-stained joggers.

The key was in one of those little lockboxes that always make me feel like I'm breaking in. I fumbled with the code twice before Dave took over, muttering something about me and technology. The door opened with a satisfying creak, and that smell hit me immediately. You know the one. Woodsmoke, old stone, something herby that I couldn't place. Probably rosemary growing somewhere nearby, though at the time I was too tired to think straight.

Inside, the place was cooler than I'd expected, with terracotta floors that felt lovely under my feet after hours in the car. The kitchen was simple but properly equipped, none of that holiday-let nonsense where you get one blunt knife and a tin opener from 1973. Someone had left a bottle of local red on the counter with a handwritten note I couldn't fully translate but got the gist of. Welcome. Relax. Drink this.

I walked straight through to the terrace, phone incident already fading into family legend. The view stopped me mid-step. Rolling hills, more of those cypress trees standing to attention, and in the distance what I assumed was Camaiore proper, a little cluster of terracotta roofs catching the evening sun. Dave appeared beside me with two glasses of that wine, still in his driving shoes, still looking slightly traumatised by Italian roundabouts.

We didn't speak for a while. Just stood there, watching the light change, listening to cicadas doing their thing in the warm air. Somewhere a dog barked, and a church bell rang, and I felt something in my shoulders release that I hadn't realised I'd been holding.

The phone on the roof, the satnav rebellion, Dave's white-knuckle driving through Lucca's traffic. All of it melted into that first perfect glass of wine on that terrace, watching Tuscany settle into evening. Some arrivals are worth every wrong turn.