I have never been brilliant with directions, so the fact that we made it to Lido di Spina at all felt like something of a minor miracle. My partner had entrusted me with the final leg of the journey from Bologna airport, which was mistake number one. Two hours of confidently wrong turns later, we found ourselves in what I can only describe as a very enthusiastic conversation with a local farmer who was definitely not pointing us toward the coast. My children, aged seven and nine, had moved from mild boredom to full theatrical despair in the back seat. The sat nav had given up on us entirely. I was quietly considering whether we might simply start a new life there among the sunflowers when my partner finally intervened and, with one glance at Google Maps, got us back on track within five minutes.

We rolled up to our holiday home just as the afternoon was turning golden, and I will be honest: the relief was physical. There it was, a neat little cottage-style property with terracotta roof tiles and a small garden that immediately made me think of the kind of place my grandparents might have holidayed in the seventies. The sort of unpretentious, straightforward accommodation that promises nothing fancy and delivers exactly what a family actually needs. I loved it on sight, mostly because I was desperate to stop driving, but also because it looked genuinely welcoming.

The key was in a lockbox, which of course I fumbled with for an embarrassingly long time while a Dutch family in the neighbouring property watched with the patient amusement of people who had already mastered this particular challenge. When the door finally swung open, we were hit with that particular smell of somewhere that has been closed up in warmth: slightly musty, slightly promising, very Mediterranean. The children barrelled past me to claim bedrooms, which they did with the speed and aggression of shoppers on Boxing Day. My partner and I stood in the small living area and exchanged that look married couples develop, the one that says "we have survived the journey, let us never speak of it again."

What struck me immediately was how the place managed to be simple without being shabby. The kitchen was compact but properly equipped, not one of those holiday let setups where you find a single bent fork and a saucepan with no handle. There was a small dining table that would fit us all, and doors opening onto a covered terrace where I could already picture myself with a book I would never finish. The bedrooms were cool and plain, with shutters that actually worked, which felt like an almost indecent luxury after years of fighting with broken blinds in various British BandBs.

I poured myself a glass of something local and stood on that terrace as the evening came on, watching my children discover the communal gardens with the boundless energy that arrives precisely when adults have none left. Somewhere nearby, perhaps from another cottage, came the sound of a barbecue being lit and Italian voices in easy conversation. The air smelled of pine and charcoal and the faintest suggestion of salt from the sea, which I knew was only a short cycle ride away.

I thought about my ridiculous detour earlier, the farmer, the sat nav betrayal, the theatrical children. It already felt like someone else's story, or at least like the necessary price of admission. The mishap had become the thing we would laugh about later, probably by tomorrow morning, possibly over breakfast if I was lucky. That is the funny thing about family holidays: the disasters you dread in the moment become the memories you treasure, while the smooth journeys fade into nothing.

Lido di Spina had me from that first evening, not because it was perfect, but because it felt perfectly suited to the slightly chaotic, largely unambitious sort of break we needed. No grand hotels, no pressure to see and do everything. Just a comfortable cottage, a terrace, and the promise of days that would unfold at their own pace. I finished my drink, called the children in for supper, and felt genuinely glad that I had got us lost. Sometimes the wrong turn gets you exactly where you needed to be.