I have never been brilliant with directions, which is how I found myself reversing down a narrow lane near Trinita d'Agultu while a local farmer waved his arms about with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for football matches. My wife was reading the map upside down, the kids were asking if we were lost yet again, and I was doing my best impression of someone who definitely knew where he was going. We were not lost, I insisted. We were simply taking the scenic route to Costa Paradiso.

The mishap, if you can call twenty minutes of rural sightseeing a mishap, began when I confidently ignored the satnav and followed a sign that looked right but was, in fact, pointing to somebody's olive grove. By the time we reached the proper turnoff, I had acquired a thorough understanding of Sardinian dry stone walling and a healthy respect for the island's narrow roads. The farmer, bless him, eventually pointed us toward the actual entrance with a grin that suggested he had seen this performance many times before.

Costa Paradiso revealed itself gradually, which I rather liked. The resort sits tucked into that extraordinary stretch of northern Sardinian coastline, all granite cliffs and Mediterranean scrub and sudden glimpses of turquoise water that make you wonder if your sunglasses are playing tricks. Our cottage-style property perched on a hillside with a terrace that looked down toward the sea, and the first thing I did upon arrival was stand there with a cup of tea that had gone slightly cold during the final approach, simply taking it in. The kids had already disappeared to investigate the shared pool, leaving a trail of discarded sandals behind them.

The accommodation had that satisfying feeling of somewhere built to actually live in rather than merely survive a holiday. A small kitchen where you could prepare proper meals without performing a contortion act, comfortable seating that did not appear to have been selected for its wipe-clean properties alone, and those little touches of local character that make self-catering feel worthwhile. Terracotta floors that stayed cool underfoot, wooden shutters that actually functioned, a barbecue area that immediately became the subject of ambitious dinner plans I suspected I would be chiefly responsible for executing.

What struck me most about those first hours was the particular quality of the quiet. Not silence exactly, because there were distant voices from neighbouring properties, the occasional scooter, the ever-present cicadas doing their enthusiastic mid-afternoon performance. But a kind of settled quiet, the sort that makes you realise how much noise you normally carry around in your own head. I found myself sitting on that terrace longer than intended, watching the light change on the water and feeling slightly guilty about how little I was accomplishing. This is the peculiar challenge of a proper family break, I think. The unlearning of productivity, the gradual acceptance that doing very little might actually be the point.

The children returned from their pool reconnaissance with important intelligence about depth markings and sun lounger availability, plus a request for ice cream that felt entirely reasonable given the temperature. We wandered down toward the small commercial area near the resort entrance, a modest collection of shops and a supermarket where we gathered provisions with the particular satisfaction of people who had earned their relaxation through minor automotive adversity. Fresh bread, local pecorino, tomatoes that actually tasted of something, a bottle of Vermentino that the woman behind the counter recommended with the confidence of someone who had personally verified its quality.

By evening, the barbecue was producing acceptable results despite my questionable technique, the children were making friends with a family from Milan through the universal language of football, and my wife was reading a book she had been meaning to finish for approximately three years. I kept returning to the view, that extraordinary coastline folding into the distance, and thinking about the farmer who had set us right. Some wrong turns, I decided, probably improve the eventual arrival. Though I would never admit this to anyone in the car with me, and certainly not to the satnav I had so rashly dismissed.

The first full day would bring proper exploration, the beach at Li Cossi that everyone had mentioned, perhaps a walk along the coastal paths. But that initial evening, still slightly dusty from the journey and glowing from the first glass of wine, felt like the true beginning. A cottage holiday does this, I think. It gives you space to arrive properly, to settle in rather than merely check in. We were not in a hotel corridor wondering about breakfast times. We were already, improbably, almost at home.

My daughter appeared at my elbow to announce that she had counted seventeen lizards on the terrace wall, a figure I had no means of verifying but was happy to accept. The barbecue produced its final offerings. Somewhere below, the sea did whatever the sea does when nobody is watching, which is probably its best work. I raised my glass to the farmer, wherever he was, and to wrong turns that end up somewhere worth being.