I have never been more grateful for a cup of tea than I was at half past nine on a Tuesday morning, standing in a lay-by somewhere east of Oristano, watching my husband discover that our hire car's fuel cap was on the opposite side to where he had been gesturing for the past five minutes. The petrol station attendant found it hilarious. I found it less so, mostly because I needed the loo and the only facilities were a bush that looked like it had already seen too much tourist traffic.

The journey from Cagliari airport had started so promisingly. Blue skies, the windows down, that lovely warm smell of maquis scrubland drifting in. We had even sung along to some dreadful Italian pop radio, the children joining in with words they definitely did not understand. Then came the Sardinian road network, which seems to have been designed by someone who really enjoyed practical jokes. Signposts pointing helpfully to places that were not, it turned out, where we actually needed to go. Roundabouts that appeared without warning, like plot twists in a bad novel.

By the time we climbed the final winding road into Ollolai, I was ready to kiss the tarmac. The village sits there in the Barbagia hills, all honey-coloured stone and terracotta roofs, looking like it has been patiently waiting for someone to notice it. Which, to be fair, not many people do. That is rather the point.

Our cottage was down a narrow lane, past a grandmother sitting in a doorway shelling beans with the kind of rhythmic efficiency that comes from several decades of practice. She nodded at us. We nodded back. It felt like an audition we had not quite prepared for.

The key was where they said it would be, in a little metal box that required the code I had scribbled on my phone. The phone, naturally, had died somewhere around the third wrong turn. My husband produced a scrap of paper from his wallet like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. I married him for moments like this, and also because he is better at parallel parking.

Opening the door was one of those holiday moments that makes you forgive everything. Cool stone floors, wooden beams, that particular stillness of a house that has been empty for a few days and is now politely pretending it expected you. The children shot upstairs to claim bedrooms, which involved a brief negotiation that nearly came to blows over who got the one with the balcony. Our youngest won by virtue of being willing to cry louder, a tactic I admire even as I deplore it.

I made that cup of tea with the funny little kettle and sat on the terrace, looking out at hills that rolled away like someone had dropped a green tablecloth and not bothered to iron it. Somewhere a dog barked. A church bell counted out the hour with the unhurried confidence of a place that has never heard of rush hour. My husband joined me, still slightly smelling of petrol, and we just sat there.

You forget, don't you, how much noise you normally live with. The constant digital ping, the traffic, the mental to-do list scrolling behind your eyes. Here the only notification was a swallow darting past the terrace, and I found myself thinking that I should probably do this more often. Not Sardinia specifically, though that would be lovely, but this deliberate slowing down. This permission to achieve absolutely nothing and consider it a successful afternoon.

The children emerged, hungry and already barefoot, demanding to know where we could swim. The nearest river spot was apparently a ten-minute walk, down a path that started promisingly and then became enthusiastically rural. We set off, me in sandals that were not designed for enthusiastic rurality, already mentally composing the complaint I would not actually make to anyone.

That evening, after pasta at the little trattoria in the village square where the owner pretended not to notice our youngest eating breadsticks for his entire main course, we walked back in darkness so complete it felt almost theatrical. The stars were ridiculous. I mean properly ridiculous, the kind of display that makes you feel slightly cross with light pollution everywhere else.

I fell asleep to silence, actual silence, and woke to birdsong and the smell of coffee my husband had already made. He had also, I noticed, worked out which day the bakery van came through the village. There is a croissant on the terrace with my name on it, and nowhere I need to be until I decide to be there.