So there I was, convinced I was a proper continental driver now, sailing down the autostrada like I owned the place, only to realise somewhere past Orvieto that I'd left our entire food shop in the boot of the hire car we'd returned three days earlier in Rome. The tomatoes, the pecorino, the lot. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The one that says she married a man with the organisational skills of a distracted goat.

Still, we pressed on to Lugnano in Teverina, winding through olive groves that looked like they'd been there since the Romans packed it in. The village sits perched above the Tiber valley, all honey-coloured stone and narrow lanes, and our cottage was tucked just on the edge where things go properly rural. I pulled up with what I hoped looked like confidence, though I'd already reversed into a bush trying to let a tractor pass. The farmer waved cheerily. I suspect he'd seen worse.

The cottage itself was one of those solid, unhurried places that immediately makes you slow down. Thick walls, wooden beams, a kitchen that smelled faintly of rosemary from the previous guests. The sort of place where nothing matches but everything works. My youngest shot straight through to the garden, where a tired-looking football sat by a stone barbecue that had clearly seen decades of slightly burnt sausages. Within minutes he'd established a one-man kickabout and declared this the best garden in Europe.

I won't pretend the first evening was sophisticated. With no food to speak of, we walked into the village proper, maybe ten minutes up the lane, and found a small trattoria where the owner seemed genuinely delighted by our incompetence. He brought us plates of strangozzi, that rough local pasta, and some excellent porchetta that made me briefly forget my cheese-based shame. The children ate bread dipped in olive oil and pronounced it the best dinner ever. Sometimes their standards are baffling, sometimes they're absolutely spot on.

What struck me most that first night was the quiet. Not silence exactly, there were cicadas going at it full pelt, and somewhere a dog with opinions. But the absence of anything mechanical, anything rushing. We sat on the terrace with a bottle of Orvieto Classico, which costs embarrassingly little locally, and watched the valley fade from gold to purple to black. My wife and I didn't say much. We'd been married long enough that this counted as proper conversation.

The cottage had a pool, nothing fancy, just a decent rectangle of water surrounded by terracotta pots with the occasional optimistic geranium. Next morning I did my usual thing of declaring I'd swim every day, then immediately finding the water bracing enough to justify a cup of tea instead. The children had no such qualms. They were in and out like seals, demanding towels and snacks with the relentless energy of the properly relaxed.

By day two I'd established my routine. Slow breakfast on the terrace, watching swallows dart about. A wander to the village for bread and whatever looked good. The small shop there does excellent local lentils, I discovered, and a salami that became my personal project for the week. Afternoons by the pool with a book I'd definitely finish this time. I didn't, obviously. But I read the same four pages in a state of such contentment that it hardly mattered.

There's something about these cottage holidays that strips away the performance of it all. Nobody cares what you're wearing, what you've achieved, whether you've seen the right sights. The children made friends with a local cat who visited daily for scraps. I perfected the art of doing very little very well. My wife actually finished a novel, which she hasn't managed on a holiday since 2014.

We did venture to the nearby ruins of the Roman villa at Poggio Gramignano one morning, mostly because I felt we should do something educational. The children were more interested in lizards than mosaics, and frankly I ended up joining them. Some things don't change in two thousand years. The sun still beats down, the Tiber still meanders through the valley below, and a man can still find himself crouched in ancient dust watching a small reptile with disproportionate fascination.

I suppose what I'm saying is that Lugnano in Teverina gave us exactly what we didn't know we needed. No grand sights, no rushing about, just the gentle rhythm of days measured in swims and walks and meals that stretched into evenings. I left my shopping in Rome, I never did finish that book, and I absolutely did not become the daily swimmer I'd promised. But I did properly slow down for the first time in years, and that feels like the real souvenir.