I have never been brilliant with directions, and my first attempt at finding our cottage in Algodonales proved this beyond doubt. We had flown into Malaga, picked up the hire car, and set off with that particular optimism that comes from having printed out instructions from the internet. The trouble was, I had somehow managed to print directions to a completely different Algodonales, one that appeared to exist only in my imagination. We spent forty-five minutes circling what I am fairly certain was somebody's olive grove before my wife gently suggested I check the postcode again.

The actual village, when we finally found it, sits in the Cadiz province of Andalusia beneath the Sierra de Grazalema mountains. It announces itself with white-washed houses climbing up hillsides, a sight so classically Spanish that I half expected to see a film crew capturing the whole thing for a postcard photoshoot. Our cottage, a traditional stone-built place with terracotta roof tiles and wooden shutters, was tucked down a narrow lane where the sat nav finally admitted defeat and simply showed an empty grey screen, as if to say "you're on your own now, mate."

The key was where the owner had promised, in a small lockbox by a potted lemon tree that smelled absolutely glorious in the afternoon heat. I fumbled with the code, dropped it twice, and managed to scrape my knuckle on the wall, which my children found hysterically funny. There is something deeply humbling about being laughed at by an eight-year-old while standing in thirty-degree sunshine with a bleeding finger and a suitcase wedged against a doorframe.

Stepping inside changed everything. The cottage had that particular coolness of thick stone walls, with terracotta floors underfoot and heavy wooden beams overhead. The sitting room featured a proper fireplace, which seemed almost comically optimistic given the temperature outside, but I imagined it would be magical come December. French doors opened onto a terrace where a small pool glimmered with that irresistible blue that makes you want to abandon your luggage and jump straight in. The children did exactly this, of course, while my wife and I stood in the kitchen, absorbing the silence that comes from suddenly being somewhere properly still.

I made myself a cup of tea using the kettle provided, because some habits survive any climate, and carried it outside. The terrace looked out over a valley of olive groves, the trees silver-green in the late light, with the mountains rising beyond in layers of blue and purple. A single bird of prey circled overhead, utterly unconcerned with my existence. Somewhere in the village, a church bell marked the hour with that slightly cracked tone that suggests decades of service.

What struck me most, I think, was how immediately the cottage felt like somewhere we could simply be. There was no pressure to dash about, no checklist of attractions demanding our attention. The pool was small enough that the children could safely muck about while we read books we had been meaning to finish for months. The kitchen was basic but perfectly adequate for assembling simple meals from the village shops, which we visited that evening for bread, cheese, and tomatoes that tasted of actual sunshine.

That first night, we ate on the terrace as darkness fell and the swallows gave way to bats. The children were asleep before nine, exhausted by travel and swimming and the particular fatigue that comes from genuine fresh air. My wife and I sat with a bottle of local red wine, watching the lights of the village below and listening to a dog bark somewhere in the distance, then stop, then start again. I thought about my earlier navigational failure and smiled. Sometimes the wrong turn leads you exactly where you needed to be.