I have never been so pleased to see a pothole in my life. After six hours of driving from Ancona airport, my partner and I were navigating the final stretch to our holiday let near Sassoferrato when our sat nav decided to stage a small rebellion. Instead of guiding us up the proper road, it sent us bouncing along what I can only describe as a farm track that may or may not have been intended for actual vehicles. The pothole I spotted meant we had reached tarmac again, and I nearly wept with relief.

The mishap that really defined our arrival, though, happened about twenty minutes earlier. We had stopped at a small supermarket in Fabriano to pick up essentials, and in my enthusiasm to practice my Italian, I confidently asked for "due bottiglie di vino rosso" plus what I thought was olive oil. What I actually purchased, we discovered upon unpacking at the property, was two bottles of rather expensive balsamic vinegar and something called "olio per lampade," which turned out to be lamp oil. My partner found this absolutely hilarious and has not let me forget it. We ate bread with balsamic vinegar that first evening and pretended it was a deliberate choice.

The property itself appeared at the end of a proper gravel drive, and I immediately understood why people rave about these converted rural buildings in Marche. The stone walls looked properly ancient, the sort that have witnessed centuries of Italian countryside life without making a fuss about it. A woman from the local agency met us with keys and a warmth that made my linguistic failures feel less embarrassing. She showed us around with patient gestures when my Italian faltered, pointing out the wood-burning stove, the terrace with its view across rolling hills, and the small pool that would apparently be wonderful once the weather warmed up properly.

I must confess something here. I am normally the sort of person who arrives at holiday accommodation and immediately starts cataloguing minor imperfections. A wobbly tap here, a questionable cushion arrangement there. It is a tiresome habit, and I know it. But standing on that terrace as the late afternoon sun turned the surrounding hills golden, I felt the peculiar sensation of my inner critic simply shutting up. The air smelled of woodsmoke and something herbal I could not identify. A dog barked somewhere distant. My partner was still giggling about the lamp oil.

The village of Sassoferrato itself sat visible from our vantage point, its medieval cluster of buildings perched on higher ground. We could see the distinctive shape of what I later learned was the Rocca, the old fortress, though at that moment I simply noted it as a pleasing silhouette against the sky. The agent had mentioned a small shop in the village for basics, and a couple of trattorias where locals actually ate rather than tourist buses unloaded.

That first evening, we sat on the terrace with our balsamic vinegar bread and a proper bottle of wine that the agent had kindly pointed us toward, watching the light fade across the countryside. My feet ached from driving. My ego ached slightly from the lamp oil incident. Yet there was something about the particular quality of quiet up there, broken only by occasional birdsong and my partner's residual chuckles, that felt like the proper beginning of something. I had not expected to feel so immediately settled, so quickly willing to let the holiday happen rather than orchestrate it.

The wood-burning stove, we decided, could wait for another evening. The pool could wait for warmer days. We had arrived, slightly ridiculous, thoroughly road-weary, and entirely ready to see what this corner of Marche might show us next.