The sat nav had been insisting we were three minutes away from Toffia for the better part of twenty minutes, which I suppose is Italian technology's way of building anticipation. We had already survived the hire car upgrade fiasco at Fiumicino, a lunch stop where I confidently ordered what turned out to be tripe, and now this final stretch of winding Rieti countryside roads was testing my partner's patience and my clutch control in equal measure. Then came the mishap. I spotted a promising-looking stone archway, declared with theatrical certainty that this was our turn, and promptly wedged the Fiat into a farm track barely wider than a wheelbarrow. A very patient goat observed my three-point turn, which became a twelve-point turn, while my children provided helpful commentary from the back seat about Dad's driving and whether the goat had a name.

When we finally found the actual entrance to our holiday home, I was prepared for defeat. Instead, I found something rather wonderful. The property sits among olive groves and gentle hills, the kind of landscape that makes you understand why Romans once holidayed in this part of Lazio. The building itself has that weathered stone warmth that no amount of careful restoration can fake; you can tell it has been lived in, adapted, loved over generations. My daughter immediately claimed the bedroom with the wooden beams, my son disappeared to investigate the pool, and my partner gave me that look which meant both "you're forgiven" and "never again" simultaneously.

The first evening taught us the rhythm of the place. We walked into Toffia proper, perhaps ten minutes along a lane that smells of wild herbs and warm dust. The village is small, unhurried, the sort where an old man on a bench becomes a landmark and the bar serves coffee that makes your usual morning cup taste like dishwater. We bought bread from a bakery that had already closed but opened again when the owner saw us peering through the window, because that is simply how things work here. I attempted my rusty Italian, she responded with amused patience, and we left with a loaf still singing from the oven and a small cake the children demolished before we reached the property gates.

Back at the house, we ate on the terrace as the light faded across the valley. The pool, we discovered, catches the afternoon sun perfectly; not Olympic-sized, but exactly right for floating about with a drink while pretending to supervise the children. My son invented a game involving diving for stones he had carefully selected from the garden. My daughter read her book in a hammock that creaked reassuringly with every breeze. I found myself doing very little indeed, which after months of the usual chaos felt almost transgressive.

What struck me most, that first day, was how quickly the place slowed us down. No grand monuments demanded our attention, no itinerary needed ticking off. The pleasure was in the olive oil we bought from a neighbour, the way the swallows moved at dusk, the simple fact of being together without the usual distractions pulling us apart. I had arrived frazzled, having driven a Fiat into a goat's personal space, already composing apologies to my family for another holiday mishap. By sunset, I was wondering whether we might stay another week.

The goat, incidentally, was called Giuseppe. I asked the next morning, on a walk of apology with some bread crusts. He accepted them with the dignity of one who has seen many tourists make fools of themselves, and I felt we understood each other perfectly.