I have never been so relieved to see a set of keys taped to a doorframe in my entire life.

The drive from Kalamata Airport had been straightforward enough, or so I told myself as I navigated our hire car through the winding roads of the Peloponnese. My partner sat beside me, clutching the printed directions like some kind of sacred text, while I maintained the kind of forced cheerfulness that only comes from having taken a wrong turn somewhere near Tripoli and pretending it was intentional. The olive groves were stunning, admittedly. Terraced hillsides stacked like green corduroy, the odd goat giving us a disapproving stare. But by hour three, even spectacular scenery begins to feel like mockery.

The mishap, when it came, was entirely my fault. I had been so smug about packing light, about refusing to pay for hold luggage, that I had not considered what happens to a wheeled cabin bag on Greek rural roads. The path from our parking spot to the property was not so much a path as a suggestion. Within approximately four metres, one wheel caught in a rut, the bag tipped, and my carefully rolled clothes erupted across the dust like a particularly unglamorous confetti cannon. My partner helpfully filmed the entire catastrophe on his phone. I will never live it down.

The property itself, when we finally staggered up to it, presented itself in stages. First, the view stopped me mid-apology. The Argolic Gulf spread out below, that particular Mediterranean blue that looks almost artificial, as if someone had been overenthusiastic with the saturation slider. Then the building proper: a straightforward, whitewashed affair with terracotta roof tiles and shutters that had seen some weather. Nothing fussy, nothing pretending to be smarter than it was. I found this enormously comforting after the polished pretence of airport lounges and hire car desks.

The keys, as mentioned, were exactly where the property notes said they would be, which felt like an undeserved victory. Inside, the cool struck me first, thick walls doing their ancient work against the afternoon heat. The kitchen was compact in that practical Greek way, tiled surfaces and enough equipment to manage simple meals without requiring a culinary qualification. I opened the fridge to find it empty and humming, which somehow pleased me more than a welcome hamper would have. Blank slate. No obligations.

I will confess to a moment of gentle self-reflection there in that kitchen, still dusty from the road, still smarting from my luggage humiliation. I am not someone who does well with unstructured time. The property offered no hotel buffet to anchor the morning, no reception desk to supply maps and reassurance. Just space, and silence, and that extraordinary view waiting on the terrace. I felt the familiar twitch of needing to fill the hours, to earn my relaxation somehow. The Peloponnese, I suspected, was not going to cooperate with this impulse.

My partner had already found the terrace chairs and was attempting to open a bottle of local wine with a corkscrew that appeared to date from the previous century. The cork emerged with a sound like a weary sigh. We sat there as the light began to soften, not speaking much, watching a fishing boat trace its slow path across the water. Somewhere below in Agios Andreas, a dog barked, then stopped. The chaos of arrival, the wrong turn, the exploded suitcase, all of it seemed to belong to a different journey entirely.

I had packed a book I was determined to finish. It remained unopened for three days.