I have never been so grateful for a sat nav with a sense of humour, which is just as well because mine was having an absolute laugh at my expense. We had been winding through the Tuscan hills for the better part of an hour, the kids in the back asking for the fourteenth time whether we were nearly there, when the robotic voice calmly announced we had arrived. I looked around. We were in a field. A very beautiful field, admittedly, with cypress trees standing to attention in the distance and golden light spilling over everything like warm honey, but definitely not the holiday home I had booked in Castiglion Fiorentino.

My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says, "You promised you had this sorted." I had, in my defence, spent a solid twenty minutes on Google Maps the night before, which felt like due diligence at the time but was now revealing itself to be somewhat inadequate preparation for rural Tuscany.

The field, it turned out, belonged to a farmer called Marco who spoke no English and had absolutely no idea why a sweaty British man was gesticulating at his phone outside his olive grove. But here is the thing about Tuscany that no amount of TripAdvisor reviews can properly convey: the people are preposterously kind. Marco abandoned his pruning, loaded our children into his battered Fiat like it was the most natural thing in the world, and led us the actual final kilometre to the property with much honking and waving. The kids thought this was the greatest adventure of their lives. I was quietly dying inside, but smiling through it.

And then we arrived. Properly arrived, I mean, at the stone farmhouse sitting among its own gardens with views that made me forget entirely about my navigational incompetence. The pool glimmered at the edge of the terrace, already catching the afternoon sun. My daughter spotted it immediately and began what I can only describe as a desperate campaign to be allowed in before we had even located our suitcases.

The first evening settled over us like a well-worn blanket. We managed a simple supper from the little shop in the village, just down the lane, nothing ambitious, just bread and cheese and tomatoes that tasted like tomatoes actually should. The children fell asleep at the table, which never happens at home. My wife and I sat with a bottle of something local and watched the sky turn that particular shade of pink that seems to belong exclusively to this corner of Italy.

I suppose what struck me most, beyond my own ridiculousness with the directions, was how quickly the whole family slowed down. There was no schedule beyond what felt right in the moment. The village of Castiglion Fiorentino itself was close enough to wander to, small enough not to overwhelm, with its medieval tower visible from our terrace like a friendly landmark saying, "Yes, you are definitely here now, not in that field."

I kept thinking about Marco, and how easily he could have shrugged and sent us back the way we came. There is something about this place, this pace of life, that makes you reconsider your own default settings. I am not about to start pruning olive trees or anything, but I might just leave the sat nav in the glove compartment next time and see what happens.

The mishap became the memory, as these things so often do. That is the real trick of a family holiday, I think, the alchemy that turns stress into story. We have our field now, our Marco, our ridiculous arrival. And we have a week ahead of us with nothing much planned beyond swimming, eating, and remembering what it feels like to be together without anywhere particular to be.

I am already dreading the drive home, obviously. But that is a problem for future me. Present me is going to find another tomato.