Getting to Castiglione del Lago involved a flight to Rome, a train to Chiusi, and then a hire car that smelled faintly of garlic and regret. By the time I reached the turnoff for the villa, I had been travelling for the best part of twelve hours and had convinced myself I could speak Italian after three Duolingo lessons. This delusion led directly to my mishap.

The villa sat up a long gravel track lined with cypress trees, looking exactly like the sort of place where you would write a novel or have an existential crisis, possibly both simultaneously. I was so busy gawping at the view across Lake Trasimeno that I failed to notice the low stone wall marking the property boundary. The crunch was unmistakable. I had successfully demolished a terracotta planter that had probably been there since the Renaissance. I sat in the car for a full minute, wondering whether to reverse and pretend it had never happened, or to own my shame immediately. I chose the latter, mostly because a woman in wellingtons was already walking towards me with the determined stride of someone who had witnessed this exact scene many times before.

Her name was Luisa, and she turned out to be the property manager rather than the owner, though she spoke about the villa with the protective fondness of a grandmother discussing a favourite grandchild. She surveyed the planter fragments with theatrical sadness, then burst out laughing. "The last guests, they hit the gatepost," she said, gesturing to a suspiciously fresh-looking patch of render. "You are improving."

The villa itself was a converted farmhouse, the sort with thick stone walls that keep out the summer heat and a kitchen that smelled permanently of woodsmoke and rosemary. Luisa showed me round with practised efficiency: the beamed ceilings, the slightly temperamental boiler she demonstrated with the reverence of a priest handling holy relics, the terrace where she promised I would spend every evening. I believed her immediately. The view was absurd, the lake stretching below like something painted by a hopeful teenager, all blues and golds and distant hills fading into haze.

I had arrived in late afternoon, that golden hour when everything looks either magical or exhausted depending on your perspective. I was both. The sitting room had a fireplace big enough to stand in and furniture that managed to be comfortable without being precious. Someone had left a bottle of local wine on the kitchen table with a handwritten note wishing me a pleasant stay. I felt disproportionately moved by this, possibly because of the planter guilt, possibly because I had eaten nothing but a service station panini since breakfast.

Luisa left me with a set of keys heavy enough to use as a weapon and instructions about the bins that I immediately forgot. I wandered out to the pool, which was surrounded by lavender already going woody in the late summer heat. A lizard darted across the paving stones. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked with the half-hearted enthusiasm of an animal that had seen many tourists come and go.

I made myself a cup of tea using the electric kettle, which took approximately seven minutes to boil, and carried it out to the terrace. The planter sat in my peripheral vision, a reminder of my failings. I decided I would find a replacement in the village tomorrow, though I suspected Luisa would beat me to it and present me with a bill wrapped in cheerful forgiveness.

The sun began to drop behind the hills, and the lake changed colour, becoming something deeper and more complicated. I thought about how I had expected to feel triumphant upon arrival, and instead felt slightly foolish, slightly fragile, and entirely present. The tea went cold. A swallow dipped and swooped over the olive trees. I had broken something within five minutes of arriving, and yet here I was, already planning how I would spend the evening doing absolutely nothing at all.

That first night, I slept better than I had in months, waking once to absolute darkness and the sound of an owl, then sinking back into sleep with the particular gratitude of someone who has finally, despite everything, reached exactly where they needed to be.