I'd been dreaming about this trip for months, so naturally I spent the entire flight to Malaga convincing myself I'd left the iron on. My partner, ever the pragmatist, reminded me we don't own an iron. Still, by the time we collected our hire car and joined the A-7 towards Marbella, I was in that peculiar state of exhausted overexcitement where everything seems either hilarious or deeply concerning.

The mishap came at the roundabout near Puerto Banus. I was too busy pointing at a man walking three tiny dogs in matching bandanas and completely missed our exit. What followed was twenty minutes of increasingly frantic navigation through streets where every villa looked identical and every hedge was suspiciously perfect. We finally found our way back, me muttering apologies while my partner nobly refrained from saying "I told you to get sat nav" more than twice.

The property sat on a hillside in the Elviria area, and I must admit I nearly wept when we finally crunched onto the gravel driveway. There's something about seeing actual palm trees after a British winter that does strange things to your emotional stability. I stood there with my hand on the still-warm bonnet, just staring at the terracotta roof tiles and whitewashed walls, feeling rather like I'd stumbled into someone else's considerably more glamorous life.

The key was in the lockbox as promised, though extracting it required the dexterity of a surgeon and the patience of a saint. I dropped it twice. My partner filmed the second drop for posterity, or possibly blackmail material. But then the door swung open and the smell hit me - that particular Mediterranean combination of warm plaster, distant pine, and something faintly citrus that no candle has ever successfully replicated.

I made straight for the terrace, abandoning my suitcase in the hallway with the chaotic energy of a toddler. The view stopped me proper. You could see the coastline curving away towards the east, the sea doing that impossible turquoise thing that photographs never quite capture. A gecko darted across the wall beside me, and I found myself grinning like an idiot at a lizard.

The pool glittered below, utterly inviting despite my travel-stained state. I may have dipped a toe in before unpacking. I definitely did. The water was that perfect temperature where it feels fresh but not shocking, and I stood there with one foot in, one foot out, realising how tightly I'd been holding my shoulders since Gatwick.

What struck me most, wandering through those first hours, was the particular quality of light. Everything looked slightly golden, slightly softened, as if the whole world had been run through a friendly Instagram filter. I kept finding myself just standing in doorways, looking. The kitchen opened to another terrace with a built-in barbecue that I immediately imagined myself failing to master. The bedrooms had shutters that actually worked, thick wooden things that promised proper darkness and lie-ins.

By evening, we'd found the local supermarket and returned with an embarrassing quantity of manchego, jamon, and bread that crunched properly when you squeezed it. We ate on the terrace as the light faded, watching swallows dart about in that last hour before dusk. I was too tired to be clever, too content to check my phone. The iron was definitely off, or more likely never on. The dogs with bandanas were probably home by now. I had cheese, a view, and the particular peace that comes from finally, finally being somewhere else.