I have never been so relieved to see a swimming pool in my life, and that includes the time I nearly walked into a Venetian canal. The drive from Perugia airport to our holiday home near Todi had been straightforward enough, or so I thought, until I decided that my phone's GPS looked "bored" and tried a shortcut. Reader, do not do this. Within twenty minutes we were on a dirt track that grew narrower with every bend, my wife was giving me the look, and the children had begun a game of "who can spot the most abandoned farm equipment." By the time we rattled up to the proper entrance, I had aged approximately five years and developed a nervous twitch every time I saw an olive tree.

The house itself, though, made up for everything. It sat there like a proper Umbrian farmhouse should, all honey-coloured stone and terracotta roof tiles, with a garden that smelled of rosemary and warm earth. I stepped out of the car and immediately felt my shoulders drop about three inches. The pool glimmered at the far end, and I may have actually sighed out loud. My youngest was already trying to remove his shoes without undoing the laces, which tells you everything about his priorities.

Inside, the place had that lovely lived-in feeling you want from a cottage holiday, not the sterile "don't touch anything" vibe of some rentals. Terracotta floors, wooden beams thick enough to swing from, and a kitchen that looked like it had actually cooked things before. My wife opened the shutters in the main bedroom and let out one of those satisfied noises that I have learned to interpret as "you are forgiven, but only just." The view was absurdly pretty, rolling hills and distant cypress trees, the sort of thing that makes you feel slightly smug about your life choices.

I will confess something here. I am not naturally a "relax by the pool" person. I am more of a "let's see what's over that hill" type, which is precisely how I got us lost in the first place. But something about this place, about the way the afternoon light fell across the terrace and the distant church bells started up, made me want to do absolutely nothing at all. I fetched a beer from the fridge, discovered it was pleasingly cold, and parked myself on a sun lounger. The children were already in the water, shrieking in that way they do when the temperature is exactly right. My wife emerged with a book she had no intention of reading and a glass of something local and white.

We had a minor domestic over the barbecue that evening, which is traditional. I maintain that charcoal is unnecessarily temperamental, and the children maintain that sausages taste better when slightly blackened. We ate outside as the light faded, swatting the occasional mosquito and arguing about whether we could hear an owl or just a very committed pigeon. Nobody cared about the answer. That is the thing about a holiday like this, I think. The arguments become part of the pleasure, little rituals that mark the day.

I woke early the next morning, still on work time, and made coffee in that kitchen with its slightly wonky cupboards. I took it outside and watched mist rise from the valley below, the kind of moment that makes you think profound thoughts about simplicity and pace of life. Then I burned my tongue because I am an idiot, and the spell was broken. But only slightly. I was already looking forward to doing precisely the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and probably the day after that. Some mishaps, it turns out, lead exactly where you need to go.