The Sat Nav had other ideas about how to reach our agriturismo near Lamon, and by the time we realised it had sent us up what I can only describe as a goat track with aspirations, we were committed. My partner was doing that silent jaw-clenching thing he does when I am supposedly in charge of navigation, and I was frantically waving the phone about hoping for a bar of signal that might save us from becoming a local legend. "Bella Lamon," I kept saying, reading the property name off the booking confirmation, as if repetition might conjure a tarmac road. It did not. What it did conjure was a very cross shepherd and three dogs who looked like they had strong opinions about tourists in Fiat Pandas.

We arrived eventually, dusty and slightly humbled, to find the farmhouse sitting pretty among meadows with views that made the whole goat-track ordeal feel like a deliberate test of character. The owner, a woman called Luisa with hands that suggested she actually worked this land rather than just posing for photographs, took one look at our car and laughed in the way Italians do when they have seen this particular drama a thousand times before. She spoke about as much English as I do Italian, which is to say we shared perhaps forty words between us and used them with the enthusiasm of people negotiating a hostage situation. Somehow we understood everything that mattered.

The apartment was simple in that perfect way that makes you question why you own so much stuff at home. Terracotta floors, wooden beams thick enough to hang a hammock from, windows that opened outward to catch the breeze rather than some over-engineered safety mechanism. I stood on the little terrace with my coffee the next morning and watched the mist lift off the hills like someone slowly pulling back a duvet. My big plan was to finish a novel I had been carrying around since March. I managed three chapters before dozing off in the sun. This became the pattern.

Luisa had left us olive oil from her own trees, which I started putting on everything including bread that I had no business eating in such quantities. The village of Lamon itself is barely a village, more a handful of houses and a church that rings its bells with what I can only call excessive commitment. I walked there most days, slowly, with no particular aim beyond stretching my legs and pretending this counted as exercise given the bread situation. There is a small shop where I attempted to buy cheese using pointing and hopeful facial expressions. The woman behind the counter found this hilarious and gave me something far better than what I had been trying to request.

The joy of this place was precisely its lack of demands. No museums to tick off, no restaurants requiring reservations booked weeks ahead, no sense that you were failing at holiday if you did not post something impressive. I read my book in patches, sometimes the same paragraph three times because the warmth on my legs and the buzz of insects proved more compelling than plot. My partner fixed a loose shutter with tools Luisa produced from somewhere, apparently unable to relax without a minor project, and pronounced himself satisfied in a way he never manages after actual paid work.

We did venture to the nearby lake once, Lago del Corlo I believe, where locals were swimming and we paddled about like the English people we are, slightly shocked by water that did not require gritted teeth. But mostly we stayed put. Ate tomatoes that tasted of actual tomatoes. Watched the light change across the meadows from morning gold to evening pink. Discussed whether we could realistically keep chickens, a conversation we have every holiday and never act upon.

On our last evening, Luisa brought us a bottle of her wine and we sat on those terrace chairs trying to express gratitude with our limited shared vocabulary. She patted my arm and said something I choose to believe meant "you needed this," though it may have meant "your Italian is atrocious." Either way, she was not wrong. We drove back down the proper road, which she had carefully explained with maps and gestures, and I felt something in my chest unclench that I had not realised was tight. Some holidays restore you through activity and discovery. This one worked because it asked nothing except that you show up, sit down, and let the sun do its slow, ancient work.