I have never been so pleased to see a petrol station in my life. There we were, three hours into what should have been a straightforward drive from Milan Malpensa, and our hire car had started making that pathetic little coughing noise that every motorist dreads. Turns out my other half had been so busy practising his Italian phrases - "una birra, per favore" being the clear priority - that he'd forgotten to check whether the tank was actually full when we picked it up. Classic.

So our grand arrival in Baveno began not with a scenic lakeside cruise but with me navigating us to the nearest Esso while he made apologetic noises and the kids loudly questioned whether we were going to miss dinner. We did not miss dinner, thankfully, though we did arrive at our holiday home rather later than planned, slightly frazzled and smelling of petrol station coffee.

The property sits up on the hillside above the town, which I hadn't fully appreciated from the photographs. The approach is steep, winding, and absolutely not designed for a Fiat 500 with a boot full of suitcases and a family-sized pack of croissants from the airport. My husband attempted a three-point turn that became more of a seven-point turn, during which our youngest helpfully observed that Daddy was "going the wrong way again." I chose to focus on the view, which even in the fading light was rather spectacular. Lake Maggiore stretched out below us, still and silvery, with the distant mountains looking properly dramatic against the darkening sky.

The house itself is one of those solid, unhurried stone buildings that seem to have grown out of the hillside rather than been built upon it. A proper cottage-style place, not glossy or trying too hard. The sort of holiday home where you immediately notice the practical details: the covered terrace where you could sit out even if it rained, the decent-sized barbecue that looked like it had actually been used, the washing line tucked around the side. These things matter when you're travelling with children and a partner who spills wine with dependable regularity.

Inside, it was cool and slightly dark after the brightness of the drive, with terracotta floors and wooden furniture that had seen some life. The kitchen was compact but sensibly arranged, and someone - presumably the owner - had left a bottle of local wine on the counter with a handwritten note wishing us a pleasant stay. I am a sucker for this sort of thing. My husband immediately began investigating the television situation while I opened the shutters to let in what remained of the evening.

The children had already discovered the garden, which slopes down behind the house with various levels and corners to explore. Our eldest announced that she had found "a lizard situation" near the rosemary bush. I decided this could wait until morning.

What struck me most, once the initial chaos subsided, was the particular quality of the quiet. Not silence exactly - there were distant church bells, some dog barking from further down the hill, the occasional scooter puttering along somewhere below - but a settled, unhurried quiet that made my shoulders drop in a way they hadn't in months. We made simple sandwiches for supper rather than attempting the restaurant we'd planned, and ate them on that covered terrace with the wine from the counter, watching the last light disappear across the lake.

I found myself thinking, as I often do on the first night of a family holiday, about how rarely we manage this at home. The sitting together without screens, the not-rushing, the accepting that dinner can just be bread and cheese and something local to drink. It takes removing yourself somewhat, I think, to remember how pleasant ordinary things can be. Or perhaps it just takes a petrol station mishap and a steep Italian hillside to force the point.

The children fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted by travel and lizard-related excitement. My husband and I stayed out a while longer, not talking much, listening to the night settling around us. Tomorrow we would explore Baveno proper, perhaps take the ferry across to the Borromean Islands, definitely find a proper gelateria. But for that first evening, simply being there was enough. More than enough, actually. I poured the last of the wine and decided that, on balance, the empty petrol tank had been a rather excellent start.