Getting to our Gianico in Lombardy was meant to be straightforward. Fly to Milan, hire a car, follow the sat nav, arrive in time for aperitivo. Simple. Except I had somehow set the destination to a town called Gianico in Umbria, which is roughly three hundred miles south of where we actually needed to be. I only realised this three hours into the drive, when the Lake Garda turn-off failed to materialise and my wife asked why we were heading towards Tuscany. I blame the excitement. And possibly the airport espresso.

We turned around at a petrol station near Parma, where I bought an overpriced panini and a dignity-restoring bottle of water. The children found the whole thing hilarious, of course. By the time we finally spotted the proper Gianico, tucked into the hills above Lake Iseo, I had promised to hand over navigation duties for the remainder of the trip. Fair enough, really.

The approach to the property is what started to make up for my navigational shame. A narrow lane wound through terraced vineyards, with the lake glinting below and mountains rising behind. Olive trees lined the final stretch, their silver leaves catching the late afternoon light. We pulled up to a stone house with a red-tiled roof and wooden shutters, the sort of place that looks like it has been there for centuries because it has. A fig tree heavy with fruit grew beside the entrance. I immediately felt better about everything.

The owner, a friendly chap called Marco, emerged from next door to hand over the keys. He spoke enough English to explain the essentials and enough Italian to make me feel guilty about my own limited vocabulary. The children were already exploring the garden, discovering a ping pong table under a pergola and a barbecue that looked like it had hosted many happy evenings. My wife headed straight for the pool, which sat on a slight rise with views across the valley. I stood there with my bag, still half-convinced I had dreamt the whole Umbria detour.

Inside, the house had that satisfying mix of old character and modern practicality. Beamed ceilings, terracotta floors, a kitchen that actually had decent knives. The sitting room opened onto a covered terrace where we would later spend most evenings, playing cards and arguing about who had let the mosquitoes in. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple and cool, with wooden shutters that actually kept out the morning light. The children bagged the room with the bunk beds before I could claim it for my afternoon nap.

That first evening, we walked the ten minutes down to the village centre. Gianico is not a place that shouts for attention. A small piazza, a church with a clock that chimes properly, a couple of shops selling essentials. We found a trattoria where the owner seemed genuinely surprised to see tourists, which I took as a promising sign. The children ate pizza, my wife had lake fish, and I drank a local Franciacorta that cost less than a pint back home. We walked back up the hill in darkness, guided by fireflies and the occasional grumpy cat.

Lying in bed that night, listening to unfamiliar night sounds and the distant church clock, I thought about my sat nav error. Three extra hours in a hot car with bickering children. A panini that was mostly bread. And yet, here we were. The wrong turn had somehow made the arrival feel more earned, more properly ours. I decided not to mention this philosophical angle to my wife. Some victories are best kept private.

The morning brought proper coffee on the terrace, warm croissants from the village bakery, and a view that made me reach for my phone to take the same photo five times. The pool beckoned. The lake glimmered below. Somewhere, a church bell rang. I had absolutely no intention of driving anywhere for at least forty-eight hours.