I have never been brilliant with ferries, and the crossing from Marseille to Porto-Vecchio proved no exception. There I was, leaning over the rail feeling decidedly green about the gills, when my youngest announced she needed the loo urgently. We sprinted below deck, me clutching my stomach and her hand in a grip that probably cut off circulation, only to find I had shoved us into a broom cupboard. A very confused Croatian deckhand found us thirty seconds later, me frantically searching for a light switch and my daughter in fits of giggles. Welcome to Corsica, I thought. This is going swimmingly.

The drive south to Bonifacio did settle my stomach, I will admit. The D859 winds through maquis-scented hills that smell of wild rosemary and something indefinably Mediterranean. My wife kept pointing at views while I tried not to take my eyes off roads that seemed designed for goats rather than a family saloon. We passed the odd village perched impossibly on ridges, stone houses the colour of honey in the afternoon light. The children had fallen asleep, which meant peace, blissful peace, until we hit a pothole and both woke up demanding snacks we did not have.

Finding the property was straightforward enough, though the final lane tested my reversing skills and my patience in equal measure. The villa sat nestled into low scrubland, a low-slung affair with terracotta roof tiles and shutters that had clearly seen a few Corsican summers. My first job was to wrestle the key from a lockbox that appeared to have been designed by someone with a grudge against human fingers. I stood there in thirty-degree heat, cursing softly, while a lizard watched from the wall with what I can only describe as reptilian judgment.

Then the door opened, and the chaos of travel fell away.

The living space was simple and unpretentious, tiled floors cool underfoot and furniture that looked like it had been chosen for durability rather than style. This suited us perfectly. The kitchen opened onto a terrace where bougainvillea scrambled over a pergola, dropping papery bracts onto the table already. I put the kettle on, because I am British and this is what we do in moments of uncertainty, then promptly discovered the hob worked on some timer system that defeated me entirely. Cold tea it was.

The children vanished to explore the bedrooms, which meant at least one argument was inevitable. Sure enough, shouts erupted over who had claimed the top bunk. My wife and I retreated to the terrace with our lukewarm drinks, watching swallows dart over the garden and listening to cicadas crank up their evening racket. A gecko appeared on the wall, frozen mid-stride, and I felt something loosen in my chest.

That first evening, we walked to a nearby beach as the light turned golden. The path was rough, the children complained about stones in their shoes, and I forgot to bring towels. Typical. But the water was that impossible turquoise you see in photographs and assume must be edited, and the cliffs of Bonifacio rose white and craggy to our left, glowing pink as the sun dipped. My daughter found a sea urchin shell, intact and delicate, and carried it home like treasure.

Back at the villa, we ate bread and cheese and tomatoes from a roadside stall, simple food that tasted of somewhere else entirely. The children fell asleep at the table, sun-drunk and sandy. I carried them to bed, creaking on the tiled stairs, and returned to find my wife opening a bottle of local wine with the efficiency of someone who had earned it.

We sat on that terrace until late, too warm for jumpers, watching stars appear in a sky barely touched by light pollution. The ferry sickness, the broom cupboard, the keybox battle, all of it seemed faintly ridiculous now, small prices for this. I thought about how I always arrive somewhere expecting the worst, braced for disappointment, and how often I am wrong. The lizard had gone, replaced by something rustling in the dry leaves beyond the wall. An owl, perhaps, or just the wind.

Tomorrow there would be boats to catch, beaches to argue about, ice creams to negotiate. Tonight, there was this: a plastic chair, decent wine, and the particular silence of a place that asks nothing of you but presence. I raised my glass to my wife, to the gecko, to whatever came next. Bonifacio had already won me over, and we had not even properly begun.