I should have known the satnav was plotting against me the moment it tried to send us up what I can only describe as a goat's idea of a shortcut. There we were, three hours out of Ancona, the kids in the back slowly losing the will to live, and me white-knuckling it round yet another hairpin convinced I was about to become a local legend for all the wrong reasons. My husband Dave kept saying "just trust the technology" right up until the technology tried to route us through someone's olive grove.

We'd booked a place in Apecchio, this gorgeous little town tucked into the northern Marche hills, and after that detour I was ready to kiss the tarmac when we finally spotted the stone walls and terracotta roof poking through the trees. The property sat on a gentle slope with views that made me forget entirely about the near-death experience. Rolling green hills, patches of woodland, and in the distance what looked like a proper medieval borgo clinging to a hillside. I actually said "blimey" out loud, which tells you something about my state of mind.

The key was in one of those little lockboxes that always make me feel like I'm cracking a safe, and I fumbled it so badly that Dave had to take over while I pretended to be very interested in a nearby lavender bush. Inside, the place had that brilliant mix of rustic beams and actually-functional kitchen that you hope for but rarely get. The owners had left a bottle of local Verdicchio and some biscuits, which the children spotted in approximately four seconds flat and declared "holiday rules" were now in effect.

I won't lie, my first proper look around came with a side of guilt. I'd been so stressed about the journey, about whether I'd packed enough sunscreen, about whether the kids would moan about the lack of WiFi, that I'd almost forgotten what we were actually here for. Standing on the terrace with a glass of that wine, watching swallows dart about and listening to nothing much at all, I felt the knot in my shoulders finally start to loosen. The pool glimmered below, completely empty, completely ours until goodness knows when.

The kids disappeared to investigate the garden, which sloped down through shrubs and little seating areas to that pool. I could hear them arguing about who'd spotted a lizard first. Dave emerged from the bedroom looking smug about the en-suite, and I wandered into the kitchen proper, running my hand along the wooden counter and already imagining the lazy breakfasts we'd have there. The fridge hummed, the tiles were cool under my feet, and somewhere a church bell marked the hour in that unhurried Italian way.

By evening we'd walked the ten minutes into Apecchio itself, just poking about really, finding the bakery and a tiny bar where an old chap nodded at us like we were already regulars. The kids had gelato, Dave and I had espresso that actually tasted of something, and we wandered back as the light turned golden across those hills. I kept stopping to take photos I knew wouldn't capture it, Dave kept saying "come on, it'll be dark soon," and the kids kept running ahead to be first back to the pool gate.

That first night, I sat up later than everyone else, just me and the crickets and a last bit of wine. The mishap with the satnav felt like it had happened to someone else entirely. I thought about how I'd nearly let my own fretting spoil the anticipation, how I'd worried about the wrong things as usual. But here we were, in this solid stone house with its funny little quirks and its proper Italian soul, and the whole week stretched ahead like a promise I actually believed in. I finished my wine, left the terrace door open for the breeze, and went to bed already wondering what slow pleasure tomorrow might bring.