I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when our satnav decided that "Leutschach An Der Weinstraße" was apparently located somewhere in the middle of a vineyard, accessible only by what looked like a goat path. There we were, two hours from Graz, bumping along a track that grew narrower with every turn, my wife clutching the door handle while the kids in the back asked for the fifteenth time if we were lost. I, of course, maintained that this was all part of the adventure. The truth was I had missed the proper turning about ten minutes back and was too stubborn to admit it.

We eventually found the cottage by following a local farmer who took pity on our bewildered faces, waving us down what was actually the correct lane. The place sat nestled among rolling hills striped with vineyards, a solid-looking house with a proper Styrian wine-cellar feel to it. My first thought, once I stopped sweating, was that the pictures had not done it justice. The second was that I needed a drink.

The owner greeted us with a bottle of their own white wine and a smile that suggested she had seen plenty of families arrive in similar states of mild panic. She showed us round while I tried to look like someone who regularly navigated rural Austria with confidence. The cottage had that lovely lived-in quality, not too precious, with a kitchen that clearly expected actual cooking to happen and a terrace that begged for lazy evenings.

The kids immediately claimed the garden, discovering a swing and some ancient-looking outdoor games that kept them occupied while I investigated the barbecue area with the intensity of a man who had just survived a minor trauma and needed to grill something. My wife opened the wine. It was excellent. I am not enough of a connoisseur to describe it properly, but I can tell you it went down very well indeed.

That first evening set the tone for what became a gloriously unhurried week. We did not rush anywhere. We walked through the vineyards in the mornings when the light made everything look slightly magical, the kids running ahead and doubling back while we strolled at a pace that would have horrified our usual city selves. We found a small local bakery where my attempts at German were met with patient kindness and excellent pastries. We cooked simple meals, ate outside when the weather allowed, and generally remembered what it felt like to do very little very happily.

Looking back, I think that wrong turn was probably the best thing that could have happened. It forced us to slow down before we even arrived, to let go of the idea that a holiday needs to be slick and seamless. The cottage asked nothing of us except to be present, to enjoy the space and the wine and the ridiculous pleasure of watching your children wear themselves out on a swing while you do absolutely nothing productive at all.

By the end of the week, I had almost mastered the art of doing nothing. Almost. The satnav remained in the glove box, unused, for our departure. Some lessons, it turns out, do stick.