I should have known the Sat Nav was up to no good the moment it tried to send us through what looked like someone's vegetable patch. There we were, three hours out of Ancona, two children in the back questioning every life choice that had led them to this hot car, and me insisting we were "nearly there" for the forty-seventh time. The road to Apecchio had started out promising enough, winding through the sort of undulating Marche countryside that makes you feel smug about your holiday choices. Then came the gravel. Then came the moment I confidently reversed into a ditch to let a tractor pass, much to the amusement of the elderly gentleman driving it, who simply shrugged in that particularly Italian way that says both "it happens" and "you're an idiot."

The cottage sat perched on a hillside, honey-coloured stone glowing in the late afternoon sun, looking utterly unbothered by our arrival. My partner gave me that look, the one that says "you chose this, and I will remember." But stepping out onto the terrace, with the Metauro valley rolling out below us like a crumpled green tablecloth, even the ditch incident began to feel like part of the charm. The children had already abandoned us for the pool, shrieking about the temperature in the way only British children can when confronted with water that isn't ankle-numbingly cold.

Inside, the place had that satisfying solidity of old Italian construction, thick walls and small windows that spoke of summers before air conditioning. The kitchen was compact but purposeful, the sort of space that forces you into a rhythm, chopping vegetables while someone else fetches wine from the fridge. I found myself strangely relieved by this. At home I'm a competent cook; on holiday I usually aspire to incompetence, letting someone else do the work. But here, with the local shop's pecorino and a bottle of Verdicchio from down the road, even assembling a simple supper felt like an event worth lingering over.

That first evening, we sat on the terrace until the light faded completely, watching swallows dart about and pretending we understood the rhythms of rural Italian life. The children, exhausted by sun and swimming, actually fell asleep without the usual negotiations. My partner and I shared a moment of quiet triumph, the kind that comes from surviving a journey and finding the place you chose actually matches the photographs. I thought about the ditch, the Sat Nav, the tractor driver's shrug. They were already becoming funny, which is perhaps the best test of a holiday's eventual success. We weren't doing anything remarkable, just sitting, eating cheese, watching darkness settle over hills that have seen countless families do exactly the same. There is something deeply reassuring about that continuity, about being temporary custodians of a view that will outlast our small worries. I poured another glass and decided that tomorrow I would attempt the drive to the village shop without incident, though I suspected the tractor driver might have other ideas.