I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I confidently strode up to the wrong villa and tried to unlock someone else's front door with the key code NovaSol had sent me. A very confused German couple peered through their window as I jiggled the handle with increasing desperation, muttering about rubbish instructions, before I noticed the house number was one digit off. The walk of shame back down the gravel path was approximately three metres but felt like three miles, and my children found it so hilarious they were actually silent for once, which I suppose counts as a parenting win.

We had driven up from Milan Malpensa that morning, a journey that started with grand promises of scenic routes and cultural appreciation and quickly devolved into a heated debate about whose turn it was on the tablet and whether Italian service station sandwiches genuinely qualify as food. The approach to Solto Collina itself, however, settled everyone down nicely. You wind up from the lakeshore through terraces of olive groves and little villages that cling to the hillside like they are not entirely sure how they got there, and suddenly the air smells different - less car exhaust, more something herbal and warm that I cannot name but immediately want to bottle.

The villa sits in that sweet spot where you feel properly tucked away without being inconvenient. Ours had a terrace that looked directly across Lake Iseo, which I had previously confused with its flashier neighbours Como and Garda but now feel rather protective of. The first evening, we did absolutely nothing except unpack badly - I always bring approximately twelve times more clothing than necessary while forgetting something crucial like a phone charger - and sit outside with bread, cheese, and a bottle of Franciacorta that cost less than a mediocre pub wine back home. The children discovered the pool and became so pruney I worried they might actually dissolve.

What struck me immediately was the particular rhythm of the place. Mornings were slow, with coffee made in a stovetop pot that took roughly four times longer than a kettle but produced something worth the wait. We would wander down to Solto Collina village, which is the sort of place where the baker seems mildly surprised you found him but is perfectly pleasant about it, and buy bread still warm enough to tear apart in the street like absolute animals. The small harbour below had fishing boats tied up with rope that looked older than me, and elderly men who sat in the same positions every afternoon as if they had been arranged by a stage director.

I had imagined myself as the sort of person who would hike extensively and perhaps learn about local geology, but the reality was far more basic and, I think, better. We swam until our shoulders ached. We cooked simple meals with tomatoes that actually tasted of something. One afternoon I fell asleep on a sun lounger with a book on my chest and woke up two hours later with a sunburn pattern precisely matching its rectangular shape, which my family photographed for posterity and blackmail purposes.

The gentle self-reflection came on our third evening, watching the light change across the lake from that terrace. I realised how much of my normal life is spent performing efficiency - rushing, optimising, feeling vaguely guilty about any unproductive moment. Here, the only schedule was whether the bakery might run out of the good focaccia if we left it too late. My children were filthy, slightly feral, and visibly content. I was slightly sunburned, definitely under-caffeinated by my usual standards, and similarly content.

We did not see every sight or maximise every day. We saw our little corner of Lake Iseo properly, which turned out to be more than enough.