We had been on the road for what felt like fourteen hours, though the satnav swore it was only four and a half from Ancona airport. The hire car was already christened with a coffee stain on the passenger seat, courtesy of my husband Mark taking a roundabout with the enthusiasm of a rally driver. But the real comedy gold came as we finally crept up the winding lane to Montefiore Dell'Aso, our little stone cottage perched above the village of the same name.

I was navigating, phone in one hand, printed directions in the other because I do not trust technology abroad. "Left at the olive tree," I announced with misplaced confidence. Mark obliged. Three minutes later we were in someone's farmyard, surrounded by chickens who looked deeply unimpressed. A chap in overalls emerged from a shed, cigarette dangling, and simply pointed back the way we'd come. No words exchanged. Just the universal language of tourists being idiots. We reversed with the dignity of people who absolutely knew where they were going, honestly, this was simply a scenic detour.

The proper approach, when we found it, was through an iron gate that groaned like my knees on a Monday morning. And there it sat: a solid, honey-coloured farmhouse with terracotta roof tiles and shutters that had faded to that perfect weathered green. Mark cut the engine. The silence rushed in. Not the awkward kind, but the thick, warm, insect-buzzing quiet of the Italian countryside. Somewhere distant, a dog barked once, then apparently decided it wasn't worth the effort.

The key was where the owner said it would be, in a little ceramic pot shaped like a frog. I immediately loved this place for trusting strangers with a ceramic frog. The door opened with a satisfying creak into a kitchen that smelled faintly of rosemary and old wood. Terracotta floors, beams overhead, a table that had clearly hosted decades of family meals. I ran my hand along it and felt briefly emotional, which I put down to travel tiredness and not enough lunch.

The children shot upstairs to claim bedrooms, leaving Mark and me to explore with the pace of people who have just remembered what relaxation feels like. The sitting room had a fireplace you could practically stand in, and sofas with the generous sag of furniture that prioritises comfort over Instagram aesthetics. I sank into one and immediately planned my retirement here. Mark opened the French doors to the terrace and let out a noise I can only describe as a contented grunt.

The garden sloped away from us, dotted with fruit trees and that particular unruly charm of somewhere maintained but not manicured. A pergola covered in something vine-like offered shade over a table that would, I already knew, become our evening headquarters. Beyond the garden wall, the hills rolled out in layers of green and gold, the village of Montefiore Dell'Aso visible below with its medieval tower poking up like a proud finger. No high-rises, no traffic noise, no queue for anything. Just the view that painters presumably weep over.

I had packed three novels convinced I would read them all. Standing there with a warm breeze and the scent of lavender I had not yet located, I genuinely believed it possible. The children reappeared demanding to know about the pool, which we found round the side: a simple rectangular affair, nothing resort-chic about it, just cool blue water surrounded by grass and a few sun loungers with faded cushions. They were in before we could discuss rules about waiting after eating.

Mark and I fetched the prosecco we'd bought at the airport, still slightly warm, and drank it from proper glasses we discovered in a cupboard. Warm prosecco in Marche tastes better than cold prosecco anywhere else, I am certain of this. We watched the light change over the hills, turning everything golden and soft, and I found myself thinking about how rarely we sit still enough to notice light changing. The children shrieked somewhere in the garden. A gecko darted across the wall. My phone stayed in my bag, already forgotten.

That first evening, we walked down to the village for pizza at a place the owner had recommended, though "walked" suggests more purpose than our actual meander. The lane was dark, stars already out, and Mark used his phone torch with the solemn responsibility of an expedition leader. The pizzeria had three tables occupied, all by locals who nodded at us with the tolerance of people used to lost British families. The pizza was thin and blistered and perfect. The children fell asleep in their chairs.

Carrying a sleeping eight-year-old back up a hill in darkness, I remembered why we do this. Not for the Instagram, not even really for the pizza. For the ceramic frog, the warm prosecco, the gecko on the wall, the silence that doesn't need filling. For being somewhere that asks nothing of you except presence.

We got slightly lost on the return too, obviously. Mark blamed the darkness. I blamed his rally driving. We were both too happy to mean it.