I have never been brilliant with directions, which is how I found myself trying to explain to a very patient man in a petrol station near Venice that I was looking for "Bibione, the place with the beach, not the cheese." To be fair, I had been driving for six hours, my other half was navigating with a phone that kept losing signal, and the children had reached that stage of the journey where they were either going to fall asleep or stage a minor mutiny. The petrol station man smiled, pointed vaguely east, and said something about "sempre dritto." I chose to believe this meant "keep going" rather than "you are a lost cause," and off we trotted.

The final stretch through Veneto was actually rather lovely once I stopped panicking. Flat fields gave way to glimpses of lagoon water, and the light started doing that golden Italian thing that makes even a tired family in a slightly too-full car feel like they have stumbled into a film. Then suddenly there were pine trees, a whiff of sea air through the window, and a sign that actually said Bibione. I may have announced this rather too loudly, because the youngest woke up and immediately asked if we were there yet. We were, technically, though finding the actual property was another ten minutes of circling quiet residential streets and me trying to look confident while driving the wrong way down a one-way system. A local on a scooter waved cheerfully at my mistake, which I chose to interpret as warm Italian hospitality rather than mockery.

The cottage itself was tucked down a sandy track lined with oleander bushes, the sort of approach that makes you worry you have taken a wrong turn right up until the moment you spot the terrace and realise you have absolutely not. I will admit I had a small moment standing there with the car door open, just breathing. It smelled of pine resin and somewhere distant, someone was cooking with garlic. The children had already bolted for the little garden to investigate a lizard, and my other half was wrestling with the boot and muttering about whose idea it was to pack so many shoes. Mine, obviously, but this did not seem the moment to mention it.

The key was in a lockbox, which of course meant I immediately forgot the code I had written down, then found it scrawled on the back of a parking receipt at the bottom of my bag. Typical. But the door opened onto cool tile floors, wooden beams, and a kitchen that looked like somewhere you might actually want to cook rather than just microwave things in despair. I ran my hand along the counter like a fool, already imagining morning coffee on that terrace with the garden hedge giving just enough privacy from the neighbours.

The mishap of the journey already felt worth it, though I would not be admitting this outright to my other half until at least day three. Some victories are best savoured quietly.

What struck me most, that first evening, was the particular hush of the place. Not silence exactly, because there were cicadas and distant voices and the occasional scooter, but a kind of settled quiet that made my shoulders drop about two inches. We walked to a little local shop for bread and cheese and something for supper, and the man behind the counter tolerated my attempts at Italian with such kindness that I found myself buying far more mozzarella than strictly necessary. The children fell asleep before nine, exhausted by travel and lizard-related excitement, and we sat on that terrace with cheap wine and the last of the daylight, too tired to do anything much except exist in the same space without rushing.

I remember thinking, right then, that this was exactly what we had needed. Not grand sights or packed itineraries, just this simple rhythm of arrival, of settling in, of letting the holiday actually begin. The wrong turns and the cheese confusion and the one-way street had delivered us here, and I was suddenly rather grateful for my own uselessness with directions. Sometimes getting slightly lost is the only way to find exactly where you wanted to be.