I should have known the holiday was going to be character-building when I managed to leave my passport in the hire car at Kos Airport. There I was, standing in the blazing afternoon sun, rummaging through a rucksack that contained three suncreams, a half-eaten packet of wine gums, and a novel I would definitely not read, but no actual proof that I was allowed to be in Greece. The car park attendant, a lovely chap called Manolis, found the whole thing tremendously entertaining and offered me a cigarette I did not want while I waited for my other half to sprint back across the tarmac.

By the time we actually reached Mastichari, I was already the colour of a cooked lobster and had developed a deep personal grudge against the concept of luggage. The village sits on the north coast of Kos, all low white buildings and fishing boats that look like they have been painted by someone with a very steady hand and a lot of time on their hands. Our place was one of those traditional Greek properties tucked down a lane just back from the harbour, the sort where you half expect a goat to wander past and judge your life choices.

The key was apparently in a lockbox, which sounds straightforward until you realise the instructions were sent to an email address I had not checked since approximately 2014. Cue twenty minutes of me trying combinations while a local cat watched with the undisguised contempt only cats can manage. My partner, who had heroically retrieved the passport, now stood with our cases looking like he was reconsidering several life decisions. The lockbox finally surrendered with a click that felt genuinely triumphant, and we practically fell through the door.

The first thing that hit me was the smell of jasmine from the courtyard, which nearly made me forgive everything. Nearly. The place itself was simple and proper Greek island style, all tiled floors and wooden shutters and furniture that had clearly seen a few decades of happy holidays. I immediately walked straight into a low beam in the kitchen because I was too busy admiring the courtyard plants, which my skull will not forget in a hurry. There is something deeply humbling about clutching your forehead while surrounded by bougainvillea.

We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person would do after travel chaos: made a pot of tea using a kettle that took roughly the lifespan of a mayfly to boil, then sat on the terrace in complete silence. The church bells started up from somewhere nearby, all melodic and unhurried, and a breeze came in from the sea carrying that particular salt-and-dried-herb smell that makes you think, alright, maybe this was worth it.

I watched a woman across the lane hang washing with the effortless efficiency of someone who has never once left a passport in a hire car. A scooter puttered past with what sounded like an entire family aboard. Somewhere, a dog barked once and apparently decided that was sufficient contribution for the day.

That first evening we walked down to the harbour, still slightly dazed, and ate grilled fish at a taverna where the owner brought us complimentary watermelon and told us about his cousin in Birmingham. The lights from the boats reflected on the water, and I sat there with my sore forehead and my sunburn and my complete inability to operate a lockbox, feeling something settle.

The chaos of arrival had been entirely my own making, as usual. But sitting there with salt on my fingers and the sound of Greek conversation washing around me, I thought that perhaps I needed the mishaps to properly appreciate the calm that followed. The property was not fancy, and my first hours in Mastichari had been a masterclass in personal incompetence. Yet there was something about the place, unhurried and honest and slightly worn around the edges, that felt like it could teach a person something if they were willing to be taught.

I was willing. After another glass of wine, I was very willing indeed.