The satnav had been chirping confidently for the best part of three hours, guiding us through the rolling Lazio countryside with the self-assurance of someone who had definitely, absolutely, without question been to this particular farm track before. Spoiler alert: it had not.

We had left Rome Fiumicino in high spirits, two children in the back already bickering about who had more legroom, a boot stuffed with supermarket provisions, and that particular holiday optimism that makes you believe everything will go smoothly. The Orvieto region opened up before us in layers of green and gold, vineyards stitching across hillsides, cypress trees standing to attention like nature's own ushers. It was properly lovely. Then the tarmac ran out.

"Turn left," the satnav commanded, as we stared at what can only be described as a gravelly suggestion of a path, more suited to determined goats than a family estate car laden with suitcases and a cool bag full of mozzarella. My husband, ever the optimist, gripped the steering wheel and declared it "probably just a shortcut." Reader, it was not a shortcut. It was a farm access road that deposited us, twenty minutes of white-knuckled progress later, in somebody's olive grove, where an elderly gentleman in overalls regarded us with the weary patience of someone who had seen this exact scene play out many times before. He didn't even put down his pruning shears, simply pointed back the way we'd come and made a series of gestures that transcended language barriers with perfect clarity. We reversed in shame.

The actual approach, when we finally found it, was entirely different. A proper lane, actual signage, and there it sat: our holiday home, a honey-coloured stone farmhouse with terracotta roof tiles that glowed in the afternoon sun. The children had fallen suspiciously quiet, always a concerning development, but in this instance they were simply gawping. The place had that particular stillness you cannot fake, broken only by cicadas and the distant clank of what I later discovered was a neighbour's sheep.

Stepping out of the car, my first thought was how the air smelled different here. Not in a pretentious way, but genuinely, noticeably different. Warm stone, dry grass, something faintly herby that I couldn't identify and didn't need to. The swimming pool glimmered at the far end of the garden, and I will admit to a slightly unseemly dash to confirm it was as inviting as it appeared. It was. The children beat me to it, naturally, already in their costumes somehow, leaving me standing there in my travel-wrinkled linen trousers feeling like the only adult at a party where everyone else had remembered to bring proper enthusiasm.

The farmhouse itself unfolded slowly. A kitchen with terracotta floors that stayed deliciously cool underfoot, windows that framed the countryside like paintings someone had thoughtfully hung for our arrival, and a covered terrace where I immediately pictured myself with a book I would probably never finish. The bedrooms were simple, unpretentious, with wooden shutters that actually functioned rather than being decorative afterthoughts. My daughter claimed the room with the view of the pool before anyone could object. Democracy, I have learned, has no place in family holiday sleeping arrangements.

That first evening, we didn't venture anywhere. We unpacked badly, ate bread and cheese and tomatoes that tasted of actual tomatoes, and watched the light change across the hills. My son, who normally communicates exclusively in memes, volunteered that it was "actually quite peaceful, I suppose," which from a thirteen-year-old constitutes rapturous praise. I sat on that terrace with a glass of local white wine, listening to my family argue good-naturedly about card game rules, and felt something in my shoulders release that I hadn't realised I'd been holding. The satnav mishap already felt like a story rather than a stress, the kind you tell afterwards with embellished hand gestures. We had arrived, slightly bedraggled, definitely dusty, but entirely ready to do very little for a week, and I could not have wanted anything more.