I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to leave my sunglasses on the roof of the car at Bologna Airport and watched them slide off somewhere near the A14 turnoff. There I was, squinting like a confused mole, already roasting in late May sunshine and trying to convince my children that Daddy was "definitely not cross, just practising his pirate face."

The drive down to Cattolica took about ninety minutes, though it felt longer thanks to my youngest deciding that "Are we there yet?" was a competitive sport. We rolled into the resort town mid-afternoon, and I immediately understood why people return here year after year. It has that unhurried, family-friendly atmosphere that you cannot fake. No pretension, no rush, just the gentle rhythm of Italian coastal life.

Finding our holiday home proved entertaining in itself. I had confidently memorised the address, neglected to write it down, and then discovered my phone had died somewhere around Rimini. We circled the same roundabout three times while my wife made that particular face she saves for my special moments. A kindly nonno watering his geraniums eventually pointed us in the right direction with a gesture that managed to be both helpful and faintly amused.

The property itself sits in a quiet residential pocket, no more than a ten-minute wander from the beach. First impressions? Relief, mostly. After my navigational performance, I half-expected a concrete box with dubious plumbing. Instead, we found a proper little home with a small terrace where bougainvillea was attempting to take over entirely, as bougainvillea does. The children bolted inside to claim bedrooms before I had even turned off the engine. My wife and I stood in the tiny garden, listening to distant church bells and the unmistakable sound of someone nearby preparing lunch with tremendous enthusiasm.

I will confess something here. I am normally dreadful at switching off. The first day of any holiday, I am checking emails, making mental to-do lists, generally failing to be present. But something about this place got to me quickly. Perhaps it was the simplicity of it. The kitchen was compact but genuinely equipped for actual cooking, not the usual holiday-home collection of one blunt knife and a saucepan with no handle. The living space opened onto that terrace, and the terrace demanded you sit down with a drink and stop being ridiculous.

We walked to the beach that first evening, just to stretch our legs after the journey. The lungomare was coming alive with the passeggiata, families strolling, children on bicycles, elderly couples holding hands with the easy confidence of decades. My lot kicked off their shoes and made straight for the water's edge, shrieking at the cold. I hung back a moment, watching them, feeling that rare thing: the gradual loosening of something tight in my chest.

Dinner was simple pasta at a nearby trattoria, nothing ambitious, just good honest food and house wine that cost less than a London coffee. The children were asleep before their heads hit the pillows. My wife and I sat on the terrace with the last of the wine, not saying much, listening to the neighbourhood settle into evening.

I had lost my sunglasses, taken a wrong turn, and made a spectacular fool of myself. And I could not have cared less. That is the peculiar magic of a place like this, I think. It lets you be slightly rubbish and rewards you anyway. We had a week ahead of us, no grand plans, no must-see attractions beyond the beach and the market and perhaps a bicycle ride if we felt ambitious. It was exactly enough. More than enough, really.

I found a cheap pair of replacement sunglasses at a beach kiosk the next morning. They were ridiculous, enormous things that made me look like a retired footballer of questionable taste. I wore them for the entire holiday and loved every minute.