The sat-nav gave up somewhere between Orvieto and nowhere, which is how I found myself reversing down a gravel track in Umbria, convinced I'd spotted a sign for Castel Ritaldi. I hadn't. I'd spotted a sign for "Cinghiali," which, as I later learned, means wild boar. So my grand arrival at this rather lovely holiday property involved a ten-point turn while being watched by a very judgmental goat. Not the sophisticated entrance I'd imagined.

I'd been driving since Pisa, where the car hire chap had taken one look at my luggage and asked if I was moving house. "Three weeks," I'd said, as if that explained the hiking boots, the waterproof that hadn't seen rain since 2019, and the optimistic pair of shorts I'd packed for "warm-weather adventures." He'd just handed over the keys and wished me luck in the way Italians do, which sounds more like a warning than a blessing.

The proper road to Castel Ritaldi, when I finally found it, wound through olive groves that looked like they'd been planted by someone with patience and a very long life expectancy. The property itself sits just outside the village, close enough to walk for a morning coffee, far enough that you feel slightly smug about your rural credentials. It's one of those solid stone buildings that make you immediately conscious of how flimsy modern houses are. The walls looked thick enough to withstand a minor siege, which was comforting given my navigational track record.

My first impression, after the goat incident, was of shade and sudden coolness. The entrance opens into a courtyard where jasmine or something equally enthusiastic had taken over a pergola. The smell hit before anything else - that green, honeyed scent that makes you want to sit down and stay put. I didn't, of course. I had plans. I'd researched walks, you see. The weather forecast had promised mid-twenties and sunshine, perfect for the coastal trails I'd been dreaming about since booking.

Here's where I need to gently reflect on the difference between research and reality. Umbria, as any map will confirm, is landlocked. There is no coast. I knew this. I'd looked at maps. But somehow, in my enthusiasm, I'd conflated "Italian holiday" with "coastal hiking" in a way that no amount of geographical evidence could penetrate. The warm-weather adventures I'd packed for were theoretically possible, but the coastal element would require a rather significant relocation.

The weather, meanwhile, had its own ideas. That first afternoon, the temperature climbed past thirty, and the air took on the particular stillness that precedes a proper thunderstorm. I stood in the courtyard with my impractical shorts and my coastal walking guide to somewhere three hours away, feeling the first fat drops of rain on my forearms.

What followed was three days of spectacular, dramatic, thoroughly Umbrian weather. Morning heat that made you ambitious, afternoon storms that made you grateful for those thick stone walls. I abandoned the coastal fantasy and walked instead through the immediate countryside - tracks between vineyards, paths that emerged suddenly at viewpoints where the hills rolled away in every direction like something from a Renaissance background. The walks were shorter than planned, more improvised, frequently interrupted by the need to shelter under trees while lightning did its theatrical best.

By day four, I'd developed a routine. Early start, quick walk before the heat built, back for lunch during the worst of it, then another wander in the cooler evening when the light went golden and the cicadas started up. I found a route to a tiny chapel, apparently abandoned, where someone had left fresh flowers in a jar. I never saw who. I found the village bar, where the owner learned my order by day two and started pouring before I reached the counter.

The property itself became part of the rhythm. That courtyard for morning coffee, the kitchen with its slightly eccentric arrangement of pans, the bedroom that stayed cool even when everything else sweltered. I read more than I planned, walked less than I intended, and gradually stopped checking the forecast for coastal regions I'd never reach.

On my final evening, the storm came early and sat directly overhead. I watched from the doorway as rain turned the courtyard to a shallow lake, and thought about how thoroughly my plans had been rearranged. The goat, mercifully, was nowhere to be seen. The lightning, though, was magnificent - illuminating the olive groves in brief, theatrical flashes, making the familiar landscape briefly strange.

I left with the shorts unworn, the coastal guide unopened, and a new appreciation for arriving somewhere without fixed expectations. Though I did check, twice, that my next destination actually had a coastline.