I have never been so grateful for a satnav with a sense of humour, and by sense of humour I mean a blatant disregard for the concept of roads. The journey to Fosse Di Sant'anna should have taken four hours from Verona airport. It took six, one wrong turn through what I am fairly certain was someone's olive grove, and a deeply humbling moment where I had to reverse half a mile because a goat blocked my path and stared at me with the contempt only a goat can muster.

By the time I pulled up to the property, I was frazzled, overheated, and absolutely convinced I had accidentally booked a shed. The reality, I am delighted to report, could not have been more different. Fosse Di Sant'anna sits among rolling hills with that particular hush that makes you realise how loud your own thoughts have been. The stone walls looked properly ancient, not in a crumbling way, but in a "we have seen things" way. I liked them immediately.

The owner, Marco, appeared with a cold bottle of water and what I can only describe as sympathetic eyes. He had clearly watched many Britons arrive in various states of navigational trauma. He showed me round with the unhurried pace that I would soon learn is simply how things are done here. The pool glimmered in the afternoon light. The terrace offered views that made my terrible driving feel, if not worthwhile, then at least forgivable.

Here is where I must confess my original plan. I had arrived in late May with grand intentions of serious hiking. I had packed proper boots, breathable layers, one of those rucksacks with a water bladder. I was going to conquer the trails. I was going to be one of those people who casually mentions their morning trek before breakfast. The weather, however, had other ideas.

The first morning dawned hot. Not pleasant warm-weather hot. Oppressive, heavy, "are you sure this isn't August" hot. I set off anyway, because I am stubborn and had packed those boots. The path down toward the coast started promisingly enough, winding through cypress trees with that distinctive Mediterranean smell of baked earth and herbs. Within twenty minutes I was sweating in places I did not know could sweat. Within forty I had found a rock in the shade and was questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.

I retreated. There is no nobler word for it. I retreated back to the villa, boots in hand, dignity somewhat diminished, and spent the afternoon floating in the pool making deals with myself about early starts.

The next few days taught me something I should have known. The weather here shifts. Mornings could be misty and almost cool, perfect for walking if you actually got up early, which I mostly failed to do. By midday the heat settled in like an unwelcome guest who refuses to leave. My serious hiking plans gradually dissolved into something more sensible and, I would argue, more enjoyable.

I began walking in the golden hours instead. Early evening strolls through nearby lanes when the light turned everything honey-coloured and the temperature dropped to something approaching civilised. I found a route down to a small cove, no more than twenty minutes from the villa, where locals gathered to swim as the day faded. The water was that particular turquoise that makes you understand why people paint. I swam in my clothes once because I had not planned properly, and a very kind older woman lent me a towel without comment.

Marco suggested a coastal path toward Malcesine one morning when the forecast promised cloud cover. I set off with modest expectations and a hat I had purchased in a panic from a petrol station. The trail followed the lake edge, sometimes climbing through scrubby woodland, sometimes dropping to shingle beaches where I stopped to paddle like a child. The views across to the mountains were absurdly dramatic, the kind that make you stop mid-step and just stare while wondering if you have somehow wandered into a film set.

By afternoon the clouds burned off and the heat returned with enthusiasm. I found a tiny harbour with a bar serving lemon granita so sharp it made my eyes water. I sat there for two hours watching boats and feeling very pleased with my adapted approach. The serious hiker with the water bladder had been humbled. The person who walked when it suited the weather, who stopped when things got uncomfortable, who accepted that plans are merely suggestions dressed up in certainty, was having a far better time.

On my final evening I walked from the villa to a viewpoint I had discovered entirely by accident, having taken another wrong turn that turned out to be right. The sun set over the hills in that prolonged, theatrical way that Italian sunsets seem to specialise in. I thought about my abandoned ambitious routes, my unused boots, my multiple navigational failures. I thought about how often I arrive places with fixed ideas about what I should do, rather than openness to what I might do.

The heat had forced a different rhythm. The landscape had gently insisted on its own terms. I had listened, eventually, and been rewarded with something more memorable than any conquered trail. I walked back in the half-dark, slightly lost again if I am honest, and entirely content.