I have never been more grateful to see a set of keys in a lockbox than I was after our seven-hour slog from Bologna airport to Cattolica. The hire car had no air conditioning to speak of, my partner had insisted on bringing a road atlas "just in case," and I had managed to spill an entire bottle of San Pellegrino down my only clean trousers somewhere around Rimini. By the time we pulled up to the holiday home, I looked like I had waded through the Adriatic fully clothed.

The mishap that really crowned the journey, though, happened ten minutes from our destination. Convinced I knew a shortcut, I followed a sign promising "spiaggia" and promptly deposited us in a car park full of fishing boats and suspicious cats. A man mending nets pointed us back toward the main road with the weary patience of someone who had redirected countless lost tourists. I waved cheerily, pretending I had meant to admire the maritime scenery all along. My partner said nothing. She did not need to.

The property sat on a quiet residential street a short stroll from the lungomare, that glorious promenade where Cattolica residents and visitors alike conduct their evening passeggiata. First impressions matter enormously when you have been travelling since dawn, and I will admit I was prepared to be disappointed by anything less than a palace. What we found instead was something far better: a solid, unpretentious house with cream walls, green shutters, and a small garden where bougainvillea had been allowed to run slightly riot. The lockbox yielded its treasure. The door opened with a satisfying clunk.

Inside, the tiled floors were cool beneath my sodden feet. The living space opened directly onto a terrace furnished with a table, chairs, and a barbecue that looked like it had seen some genuinely committed meat-eating over the years. I could imagine evenings out there, nursing a glass of Sangiovese while the scent of grilled sardines drifted over from somewhere nearby. The kitchen was compact but properly equipped, not one of those holiday rental set-ups where you find a single blunt knife and a saucepan with no handle. Someone had actually cooked here. Someone had lived here, or near enough.

I dumped our bags with the theatrical exhaustion of a man who had personally dragged the car across the Apennines and wandered through to inspect the bedrooms. They were simple, clean, blessed with functioning shutters that actually kept out the afternoon heat. The bathroom had a shower with decent pressure, which I tested immediately, standing under the water until my fingers wrinkled and my dignity partially restored.

What struck me most, once the initial flurry of arrival subsided, was the particular quality of light. Cattolica sits where the Romagna plain meets the sea, and the afternoon sun came through the windows with a milky goldenness I had not expected. From the upstairs balcony I could see terracotta rooftops, a slice of the harbour, and beyond it the Adriatic stretching toward a horizon I suddenly had no intention of crossing anytime soon.

My partner emerged from unpacking to find me standing there in a towel, still damp, still slightly ridiculous. She laughed, properly, for the first time since Bologna. I had got us lost, ruined my trousers, and subjected her to my singing for two hundred kilometres of autostrada. Yet here we were, in a house that already felt like somewhere we might happily not leave for days.

I made a promise to myself in that moment, watching the fishing boats bob in the distance. I would not attempt a single shortcut for the entire holiday. I would follow the lungomare wherever it led. I would probably spill something else before the week was out, but it would not matter. We had arrived, more or less in one piece, and Cattolica was already working its quiet, unshowy magic.