I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when our sat nav decided that "Casalvelino" sounded suspiciously like "casual velour" and tried to direct us to a sportswear outlet near Naples. Two hours of winding coastal roads later, with my partner reading directions from a screenshot and the kids asking if we were nearly there for the forty-seventh time, we finally spotted the turnoff. I may have celebrated with a small victory honk that echoed embarrassingly off the surrounding hills.

The property sits in that gorgeous bit of Campania where the mountains seem to lean down to gossip with the sea. Our cottage, one of a cluster at the IKC085 place, was tucked among olive trees and what I later learned were lemon groves but initially mistook for some sort of oversized shrubbery. In my defence, British lemons come from Tesco and do not require ladders.

The key was exactly where promised, which felt like a minor miracle given our track record with holiday rentals. I once spent twenty minutes trying to break into what turned out to be the neighbour's identical villa in Portugal. This time, though, the door swung open to reveal terracotta floors, whitewashed walls, and that particular cool darkness that Italian houses seem to generate effortlessly while the rest of us sweat through our linen.

My daughter immediately claimed the bedroom with the balcony, which left us with the one overlooking the shared garden. I say "shared" - what I mean is that a tortoise had established squatter's rights near the rosemary bush and declined to acknowledge our presence. The kids named him Giuseppe within minutes. He has not responded to this, or indeed to anything, but they remain optimistic.

The kitchen was compact in that way that makes you realise how much unnecessary space British houses waste on things like "work surfaces" and "cupboards that close properly." I knocked a plate off what I thought was a counter but was technically a windowsill within twenty minutes of arrival. It survived, which felt like a sign. Possibly from Giuseppe.

What struck me most, once the sat nav trauma faded, was the particular quality of the afternoon light filtering through the shutters. Everything looked slightly golden and forgiving, even the pile of luggage we had abandoned in the hallway. My partner opened the patio doors and the smell hit us - that warm, herby, slightly citrusy air that makes you understand why people write poetry about this coastline.

We had planned to unpack properly, maybe plan some excursions, be organised parents for once. Instead, we sat on the terrace with a bottle of local Falanghina that had been chilling in the fridge, watching the kids chase Giuseppe around a lavender bush with the misguided confidence of children who have never actually caught anything faster than a cold. The tortoise remained unmoved. The wine was excellent. Somewhere in the valley below, a dog barked at what I can only assume was the concept of siesta ending.

By evening, we had established our rhythm. Simple pasta from the tiny kitchen, eaten outside as the light finally gave up and turned everything various shades of blue. The kids fell asleep with balcony doors open, which in Britain would mean waking to find a fox rearranging your furniture. Here, just crickets and the occasional distant scooter.

I keep thinking about that first afternoon, how we arrived slightly broken by the journey and were somehow mended by stillness and terracotta and a tortoise who couldn't care less. The mishaps didn't stop, of course - I will not be discussing the laundry incident - but that initial arrival set the tone. Sometimes you need to get slightly lost to find somewhere that feels, against all reasonable expectation, like it might let you rest.