I have never been more grateful to see a set of keys in a plastic box than I was at half past eight on a Saturday evening in Costa Rei. The journey from Cagliari had taken the best part of two hours, which sounds reasonable enough until you factor in my spectacular inability to navigate Sardinian roundabouts. I went round the same one three times, each lap accompanied by increasingly creative language and a growing certainty that the hire car's sat nav was personally mocking me. By the time I spotted the correct exit, I was half convinced I would end up in the sea.

The mishap came five minutes from the property. I stopped at what I thought was a small supermarket to grab essentials, only to discover I had wandered into someone's garage. The owner, a splendid chap in flip-flops and a vest that had seen better decades, found the whole thing hilarious. I bought two bottles of water and a melon out of sheer embarrassment. The melon was enormous. It rolled around the boot for the rest of the week like a passive-aggressive reminder of my stupidity.

The property itself sits in that lovely quiet stretch of south-east Sardinia, a short wander from the beach and surrounded by low scrubland and the occasional determined cactus. I pulled up as the light was finally fading, fumbled with the key box code, and practically fell through the door. The first thing that hit me was the smell of clean linen and warm plaster, that particular holiday-rental scent that instantly lowers your shoulders by about three inches. The second thing was the realisation that I had left the melon in the car.

I dumped my bags in the hall and did a quick reconnaissance, still slightly giddy from the drive and the garage incident. The place had that pleasing simplicity you find in proper Sardinian properties, not trying too hard but everything where you need it. Tiled floors that would stay cool even in the height of August, shutters that actually keep the light out, a kitchen that looked like it had seen some genuinely enthusiastic cooking. I opened the back door and found a small terrace with a barbecue that had clearly been the site of many happy evenings. A gecko watched me from the wall with the patient superiority these creatures always seem to possess.

I will admit that my first act as a Costa Rei resident was not sophisticated. I sat on that terrace in the dark, still wearing my driving shoes, and ate a wedge of that ridiculous melon with a spoon. It was absolutely perfect, sweet and messy and cold from the car's feeble air conditioning. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sea, or perhaps just the wind in the maquis, and the occasional bark of a dog from a neighbouring property. No traffic, no crowds, just the warm night settling around me like a blanket.

The morning brought proper revelation. I woke absurdly early, still on mainland time, and padded out to find the terrace bathed in that particular Mediterranean light that makes everything look slightly golden and improbably beautiful. The walk to the beach took perhaps ten minutes, down a dusty track between wild rosemary and low stone walls. The water was that impossible turquoise you see on postcards and assume has been enhanced, but there it was, entirely genuine, lapping at pale sand with barely anyone around to spoil it.

I stood there in my driving shoes again, because I had forgotten proper beach footwear in my rush to see the sea, and felt that lovely shift that happens when a holiday truly begins. The melon, the roundabout, the garage, they all faded into the comfortable territory of stories I would tell later. Costa Rei had already worked its quiet magic, and I had been there less than twelve hours.