I should have known the Andalusian spring was up to its old tricks when I packed three jumpers and arrived to find the locals in t-shirts. The drive from Malaga had been all winding roads and sudden bursts of wildflower colour, but nothing prepared me for that first blast of heat as I stepped out of the hire car in Arriate. Well, I say stepped. What actually happened was I attempted to open the door, found it mysteriously locked from the inside despite my having just exited, and spent a solid four minutes performing an elaborate dance with the key fob while my partner sat in the passenger seat wondering if I'd lost the plot entirely. The neighbours, I later learned, were taking bets on how long I'd persist. I gave them a good show.

Arriate sits perched above the Ronda valley like it's keeping an eye on things, and arriving in late April meant the whole place was in that glorious, slightly chaotic transition between winter sleep and summer frenzy. The almond blossom had finished its brief performance, but the orange trees were still putting on a show, and the scent hit me before anything else. That heavy, sweet, almost drunken smell that makes you understand why the Spanish take their citrus so seriously. I stood there like a proper tourist, inhaling dramatically, while a local woman walked past with her shopping and gave me the knowing smile of someone who sees this particular revelation at least twice weekly.

The cortijo itself was exactly the sort of place that makes you reconsider your entire life back in damp Britain. Thick whitewashed walls, a terrace that caught the morning sun just so, and a pool that the April weather had barely warmed to what I'd call bracing. I dipped a toe in on that first afternoon and promptly retreated to a sun lounger with the dignity of a man who knows his limitations. The seasonal timing was perfect, really. Warm enough to sit outside with a glass of something local as the evening cooled, not so hot that you felt obliged to do anything more strenuous than lift said glass to your lips.

What struck me most was how the spring light seemed to stretch everything out. The days felt longer than they had any right to, and the village moved at a pace that made my usual hurry feel faintly ridiculous. I found myself actually noticing things. The way the swallows were already busy with their architectural projects under the eaves. The particular green of the hills, that temporary lushness that wouldn't survive the summer drought. A farmer burning olive prunings somewhere in the valley, the smoke hanging in the still air.

That first evening, we walked into the village proper and I made my second rookie error of the day, ordering a beer at what I thought was a perfectly reasonable hour only to discover we'd caught the tail end of siesta and the barman was operating on purely charitable terms. He served us anyway, with the patient tolerance of a man whose afternoon nap had already been compromised by louder tourists than us. We sat on plastic chairs outside, watching the light change over the valley, and I felt that particular seasonal magic of being exactly where you are supposed to be, even if you arrived there via a locked car door and mild public humiliation.

The spring in Arriate doesn't announce itself with trumpets. It creeps in through open windows, through the scent of orange blossom, through evenings that invite you to stay outside just a little longer than you planned. By the end of that first day, my jumpers remained untouched in the case, the car door and I had reached an understanding, and I was already wondering how early I could reasonably justify my first glass of local red. Some arrivals, it turns out, are worth the occasional mishap.