I should have known the satnav was up to no good the moment it tried to send me up what I can only describe as a goat's idea of a shortcut. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, there I was in a hire Fiat that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and regret, wedged between two olive trees on a track so narrow I could have shaken hands with the farmer on either side.

The mishap, if you can call it that, came about ten minutes later. I had finally found the proper road to Pieve A Elici, feeling rather pleased with myself, when I spotted a sign for the property and turned in with perhaps too much enthusiasm. The gravel crunched satisfyingly. A cat looked at me with undisguised contempt. I grabbed my suitcase, marched up to a truly beautiful stone building with a terracotta roof, and knocked on a heavy wooden door with the confidence of a man who had definitely arrived at his destination.

An elderly gentleman answered. He was lovely. He was also, unfortunately, not my host. Through a combination of broken Italian, wild gesticulation, and what I now realise was probably highly offensive hand-signing on my part, I established that I was at the wrong Pieve entirely. There are, apparently, several properties with similar names in this part of Tuscany, because of course there are. The chap found this hilarious. I found it less so, particularly as I had to reverse the Fiat back down his drive past his entire family, who had gathered to watch the Englishman make his exit.

The correct Pieve A Elici, when I finally found it sitting pretty among the hills above Lucca, revealed itself gradually. You crest a bend and there it is: weathered stone, climbing vines, the whole romantic tableau. I pulled up properly this time, double-checking the address like a man who has learned his lesson, and simply sat for a moment with the engine off. The quiet was immediate and slightly unnerving. No traffic hum, no distant aeroplanes, just cicadas and the faint clank of something agricultural happening somewhere out of sight.

My host emerged before I could even unbuckle, which I appreciated given my earlier performance. She was brisk and warm in that efficient Italian way, showing me round what I can only describe as a farmhouse that has been gently persuaded into the twenty-first century without losing its soul. The kitchen had one of those enormous fireplaces you could practically stand in, though she assured me the modern cooker worked perfectly well and was considerably less dramatic for making pasta. Beamed ceilings, terracotta floors that stay cool even in the warmth, windows that actually open properly with wooden shutters that clatter satisfyingly against the stone.

I dumped my bags in a bedroom with a view straight out over olive groves and cypress trees, that classic Tuscan layering of green and grey and gold. The sort of view that makes you feel slightly fraudulent, as if you have wandered into a painting without earning the right to be there. I stood at that window for longer than I care to admit, watching the light shift across the valley and wondering how many centuries of farmers had stood in roughly the same spot, probably with considerably more purpose and significantly less jet lag.

The pool, she mentioned casually, was just down the path. I wandered over after unpacking, more out of curiosity than any real intention of swimming, and found it tucked into the hillside with those same sweeping views. The water was that particular blue that only seems to exist in Mediterranean sunlight. I dipped a toe, told myself I would swim properly in the morning, and then proceeded to fall asleep on a sun lounger for forty-five minutes, waking with a crick in my neck and the distinct impression that a small lizard had been observing me with scientific interest.

Dinner that first evening was simple and local, procured from a village shop I had passed in my various wrong turns. Bread, pecorino, some tomatoes that actually tasted of something, a bottle of wine that cost less than a London coffee and delivered considerably more happiness. I ate on the terrace as the light faded, watching swallows dart about and listening to the distant church bells from somewhere down in the valley.

What struck me most, I think, was the sense of having stepped sideways out of normal life. Not escaped exactly, more like temporarily suspended. The long journey, the satnav rebellion, even the wrong-Pieve fiasco, all of it fell away into irrelevance. I was too tired to be clever about it, too full of decent wine and fresh air to overthink anything. I simply sat there, slightly sunburnt on one shoulder, and let Tuscany do what Tuscany does best, which is to make you feel that whatever you were rushing back home for can probably wait.