I have never been so grateful to see a stone wall in my life. Three hours after leaving Perugia airport, having confidently ignored the sat nav in favour of what I called "the scenic route" and my partner called "getting us completely lost," we finally spotted the weathered sign for San Feliciano. I had taken a wrong turn somewhere near Lake Trasimeno, ended up on a dirt track between olive groves, and very nearly clipped a very unbothered wild boar who looked at me with the kind of disdain I usually reserve for people who put pineapple on pizza.

The property itself sits just outside the village, a solid old farmhouse with that particular faded terracotta glow you only seem to find in Umbria. I fumbled with the key box for a good five minutes, dropping the code sheet twice, before the door swung open and that warm, slightly dusty smell of a place that has been quietly waiting hit us. My partner went straight to the terrace. I heard her laugh before I even made it through the kitchen.

The view is ridiculous, frankly. Rolling hills, cypress trees standing to attention in the distance, and nothing but birdsong and the occasional distant tractor. I had packed an ambitious stack of novels, a notebook for "creative thoughts," and a pair of walking boots I had convinced myself I would use daily. Within two hours, I was horizontal on a sun lounger with a glass of something local and white, having located exactly none of the ambitious plans. The boots remained in the hallway for the entire fortnight. I am not ashamed.

The joy of San Feliciano, I quickly discovered, is precisely this permission to do almost nothing. The village itself is a ten-minute wander down the lane, all shuttered houses and a single bar where the coffee costs little more than a smile and the morning regulars play cards with theatrical seriousness. I tried to order in Italian on day three, mangled the pronunciation of "corretto," and received something involving grappa that made my eyes water. The barman, Enzo, found this hilarious and adopted us for the duration. Every morning thereafter, he would simply raise an eyebrow and produce two perfectly normal coffees without comment. I respected this deeply.

We developed a routine of almost aggressive laziness. Mornings on the terrace with bread from the bakery in Magione, proper butter, and tomatoes that actually tasted of something. Afternoons drifting between the pool and a hammock that creaked reassuringly with every page turn. I read three and a half novels, started a fourth, abandoned it for being "too much like hard work," and simply watched the swallows darting over the lavender instead. My "creative thoughts" notebook contains exactly one entry, written on day two: "Buy more of this wine." I stand by it.

There were gentle expeditions, of course. A slow cycle to the lake shore one morning, where we sat with our feet in the water and shared a panino from a van that appeared to have been parked there since 1987. An evening stroll through the olive groves as the light turned golden and the cicadas started up their endless symphony. A trip to the tiny local co-operative for more wine, where the woman behind the counter let us taste three varieties and pretended not to notice when I went back for a fourth "just to be sure."

What struck me most, I think, was how quickly the world shrinks to what matters. No news alerts, no urgency, no sense that one ought to be achieving something. Just the warmth of stone under your palm, the particular hush of a hot afternoon, the pleasure of a simple supper eaten outside as the sky fades through every shade of pink. I am not someone who finds stillness easily. My default setting is mild panic and a to-do list. But San Feliciano wore me down, in the best possible way, until I could sit for an hour watching clouds reshape themselves above the valley and genuinely call it time well spent.

On our final morning, I found a half-eaten fig on the terrace railing, courtesy of some bird or other creature who had clearly been enjoying the property as much as we had. I left it there. Some things, I decided, are better shared.