I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise absolutely no one that I managed to get lost roughly four minutes after leaving Orvieto train station. The sat nav had cheerfully announced we had arrived at our destination while we were, in fact, parked outside a petrol station on the outskirts of town, surrounded by sunflowers and my own mounting panic. My other half sat in the passenger seat wearing that particular expression of long-suffering patience that comes from fifteen years of my navigational disasters. We eventually found the right lane, a dusty track winding through olive groves, and there it was: our little stone house sitting among cypress trees like something from a very flattering postcard.

The mishap was quickly forgotten, though I did have to endure some gentle teasing about my petrol station pilgrimage for the remainder of the week. The owners had left us a bottle of local white wine and a bowl of plums from their garden, which seemed an extraordinarily generous welcome given that we had arrived an hour late and rather sweaty. I poured us both a glass immediately and declared that from this moment forward, I would be doing absolutely nothing of any consequence whatsoever. This turned out to be the finest decision I made all holiday.

The house itself was simple and unpretentious, with terracotta floors that stayed deliciously cool underfoot and shuttered windows that kept the afternoon heat at bay. But it was the outside space that truly seduced me. A covered terrace with a wobbly wooden table, a couple of faded deckchairs, and views across rolling hills that seemed to stretch on forever. I spent the first afternoon simply sitting there, watching swallows dart about and feeling rather pleased with myself for having the good sense to book somewhere so perfectly suited to indolence.

The following days settled into a rhythm so lazy it barely qualified as a rhythm at all. Mornings began with strong coffee and whatever pastries we had picked up from the bakery in Orvieto's old town, eaten in pyjamas while the sun climbed over the rooftops. By ten o'clock I would be installed in my deckchair with a novel, occasionally looking up to watch a distant tractor crawl across a field or to listen to the church bells drifting up from the valley. I read three books that week, which is approximately three more than I had managed in the previous six months. There is something about Italian sunshine that makes concentration effortless, or perhaps it simply strips away the guilt that usually accompanies doing very little.

We did venture out, of course, though never very far and never with any particular urgency. Orvieto's duomo demanded a visit, its striped marble facade absurdly dramatic against the blue sky, and we wandered the narrow streets of the old town discovering dead ends and unexpected viewpoints. One evening we found a tiny restaurant near the cathedral where the owner talked us through the local wines with such passion that we rather lost track of time and had to navigate the winding road home in darkness, which I handled with considerably more competence than my earlier petrol station episode.

Mostly, though, we stayed put. There were long lunches of bread and pecorino and tomatoes that actually tasted of something, eaten at that wobbly table with wine that cost less than a London coffee. Afternoon naps became non-negotiable. I took to watering the potted geraniums on the terrace each evening, a task of such minimal effort that it barely counted as gardening, yet it gave me an absurd sense of proprietorship. On our final morning, I realised I had not checked my work emails once, had not made any plans beyond deciding whether to swim in the pool before or after lunch, and had achieved precisely nothing that would impress anyone at a dinner party back home.

Sitting on that terrace with my coffee, watching the mist lift from the valley below, I felt something I rarely experience: the particular contentment that comes from genuinely slowing down, from allowing a place to work its quiet magic without demanding anything in return. I would not say I had some profound revelation about the meaning of life, because that would be overstating things considerably. But I did understand, perhaps for the first time in years, that doing very little in beautiful surroundings is not merely acceptable but actively restorative. We packed the car with some reluctance, my other half driving while I navigated, and I am pleased to report we reached the station without a single wrong turn, though I suspect this had more to do with his competence than any improvement in my abilities.