Getting to Lugnano in Teverina was meant to be straightforward. Fly to Rome, hire a small car, pootle up through Lazio into Umbria. Simple. Except I somehow managed to set my sat nav to avoid motorways, tolls, and apparently anything resembling a direct route. Two hours in, I found myself bumping down a gravel track between olive groves, absolutely convinced I'd discovered a shortcut. I hadn't. What I'd discovered was a very patient local farmer and the wrong side of a river. The farmer, bless him, just shrugged and pointed back the way I'd come. I reversed for what felt like a kilometre. My hire car now had that authentic "rural adventure" look, which is code for dust everywhere and a minor branch scratch I'm definitely not mentioning when I return it.

But then I crested the final hill, and there was Lugnano in Teverina proper. And more importantly, there was the property. Stone walls, terracotta roof, that particular honey-coloured light you only seem to get in this corner of Italy. I stepped out of the car and the heat hit me properly for the first time. This was late June warmth, the kind that makes you move slower and think about cold drinks almost constantly.

I'd planned to spend my first afternoon exploring on foot. The property sits in proper walking country, with trails heading out in several directions through the Tiber valley. My host had left a hand-drawn map marking a route to a nearby viewpoint, maybe forty minutes each way. Perfect for stretching my legs after the drive, I thought. I laced up my boots, filled my water bottle with what I now realise was excessive optimism, and set off.

The path started gently enough, winding through olive groves where the trees looked impossibly ancient, their silvery leaves shimmering in the afternoon sun. But the temperature was climbing steadily, and within twenty minutes I understood that "warm weather" in Umbria in late June isn't quite the same as "warm weather" in the Peak District. I was sweating properly now, the kind of sweat that makes you question every life choice that led to wearing dark colours. The path steepened as it left the groves and entered more open scrubland. The views across the valley were genuinely spectacular, but I was becoming increasingly focused on finding shade.

I reached a fork in the path where my map suggested continuing upward to the viewpoint. The alternative dropped down toward the river. The sensible choice, given the heat pressing down like a physical weight, was clearly the river route. But I'd set out for that viewpoint. I stood there, genuinely torn, feeling slightly ridiculous about my own stubbornness. This was meant to be a relaxing holiday, not some test of endurance. Yet there I was, treating a pleasant walk like a military expedition.

In the end, the heat made my decision for me. A particularly vicious fly started circling my head with what felt like personal malice, and I took it as a sign. I turned toward the river, and within ten minutes the temperature dropped noticeably as the path descended into tree cover. I found a flat rock by the water, took off my boots, and sat with my feet in the Tiber's cool flow for a good half hour. The viewpoint could wait.

That evening, back at the property, I watched the sunset from the terrace with a glass of local Grechetto and felt rather pleased with my adaptability. The walk hadn't gone to plan, but the river detour had been genuinely lovely. I'd seen kingfishers, or something very like them, darting along the bank. The heat that had nearly defeated me earlier now felt pleasant, softened by evening.

I decided then that my week would follow this pattern. Morning walks, before the real heat built. Afternoon retreats to the property's pool or shady corners with a book. Evening explorations as the light turned golden again. The coast and dramatic hikes could wait for another trip, another season. Umbria in summer asks something different of you. It asks you to slow down, to move with the temperature rather than against it, to find the river path when the viewpoint feels too much.

The next morning I tried the viewpoint route again, starting at six thirty when the valley was still misty and cool. I made it easily, and the view was worth every step. But I think I'll remember that first afternoon more clearly, the moment I admitted defeat to the weather and found something better in the compromise. Sometimes the wrong path, taken willingly, becomes the right one after all.