I have never been so grateful to see a sign for Guillena in all my life. Three hours earlier, my partner and I had set off from Seville airport full of optimism, armed with a hire car, a paper map neither of us could read properly, and what I can only describe as misplaced confidence in my Spanish pronunciation. The sat-nav had given up somewhere near a roundabout that I am convinced did not exist on any known map, and we found ourselves down a dirt track surrounded by olive groves, arguing about whether "recalculating" was an actual word or just a noise the machine made to mock us.

The mishap, when it came, was entirely my fault. I had been so proud of packing light for once, so smug about fitting everything into a single rucksack, that I had completely forgotten to pack any actual shoes beyond the flip-flops on my feet. There I was, standing in a dusty car park outside a village shop, trying to ask in broken Spanish where we might find our holiday let, while my toes collected enough Andalusian earth to start a small allotment. A very patient woman took pity on me, pointed us back toward the main road, and sold me a pair of cheap canvas espadrilles that I am still wearing now. They have become my favourite thing.

The property itself sits just outside Guillena proper, surrounded by those same olive groves that had so confused us, plus a few orange trees heavy with fruit and a garden that seems to have made peace with the heat rather than fight it. Our host had left the key under a flowerpot, which felt thrillingly illicit, and we stepped inside to find cool tiles, whitewashed walls, and the particular silence that comes from being somewhere with no urgent reason to make noise. I stood in the kitchen for a full minute just listening to nothing much at all, my ridiculous new shoes still on, my partner already investigating the terrace with the enthusiasm of someone who has spotted a hammock.

That first afternoon set the tone for everything that followed. We did not unpack properly. We did not make any plans. We took bread and cheese and a bottle of local beer out to the terrace and watched the light change over the groves, and I felt something in my shoulders release that I had not even realised I was holding. A gecko appeared on the wall, observed us with what I chose to interpret as approval, and disappeared. We stayed there until the swallows started their evening circuits overhead, and neither of us suggested doing anything more ambitious.

The days since have followed a similar rhythm. Mornings are for slow breakfasts with oranges from the garden, for reading in patches of shade that move obligingly around the terrace as the sun climbs. We have walked into Guillena itself a few times, a pleasant twenty-minute stroll that feels like enough exercise to justify another beer, and have become regulars at a tiny bar where the owner now recognises my terrible Spanish and kindly pretends it is better than it is. We buy bread, we buy tomatoes, we wander back through the groves with no particular hurry.

Yesterday I finished a novel I had been carrying around unread for six months. Today I might start another, or I might simply watch the gecko again. There is a small pool here that we dip into when the heat becomes persuasive, and I have developed what I can only describe as a serious relationship with the hammock. My partner has taken to afternoon naps with the dedication of a professional. We have not seen a single sight that would feature in any guidebook, and I cannot remember the last time I felt so genuinely content.

The espadrilles are wearing through at the toes. I should probably buy another pair before we leave, or perhaps I will simply accept that some things are not meant to last, and that doing very little in the sunshine is, occasionally, exactly enough.