I have never been brilliant with directions, so the fact that I made it to Miami Platja at all felt like something of a personal triumph. The flight into Reus was straightforward enough, and the hire car was one of those compact affairs that makes you feel like you are driving a toy. But it was the final stretch from the airport that nearly finished me off. Somewhere between Cambrils and the coast, I convinced myself that the sat nav had lost the plot entirely. The roads narrowed, the olive groves closed in, and I became absolutely certain I was about to pitch up at somebody's farmhouse uninvited. I pulled over to check the address for the third time, reversed slightly to turn round, and promptly backed into a very solid and very unyielding stone wall. The crunch was not loud, but it was deeply humiliating. The wall, being Catalan and several centuries old, was entirely unbothered. The rear bumper, less so.

By the time I actually found the place, I was in that peculiar state of sweaty exhaustion mixed with mild trauma that makes even the most sensible person a bit emotional. But then I saw it. The little terrace with its terracotta pots, the blue of the pool catching the afternoon light, and beyond it the shimmer of the sea. I stood there with my suitcase still in the boot and the car door hanging open, and I actually laughed. The whole drive, the wall incident, the nagging suspicion that I had accidentally booked a hovel rather than a holiday home, it all dissolved in about three seconds.

The key was in the lockbox exactly where promised, which felt like a small miracle given my current luck. I fumbled it out with hands still slightly trembling from the journey and stepped inside. The cool of the tiled floors hit me immediately, that particular Mediterranean chill that makes you grateful for thick walls and sensible architecture. The kitchen was compact but properly equipped, not one of those holiday rentals where you open a cupboard to find a single bent fork and a saucepan with no handle. I ran the tap and filled a glass, and the water tasted of the place somehow, minerally and clean.

I dumped my bag in the bedroom without really looking, because the terrace was calling. The pool was smaller than it had appeared in the photos, but somehow better for it, more like a private plunge pool than something showy. I kicked off my shoes and let the warm stone underfoot ground me properly. A neighbour somewhere was cooking something with garlic, and the smell drifted over with the faint sound of a radio playing Catalan pop. I sat on one of the plastic loungers, the kind that squeak slightly when you shift your weight, and I felt the tension of the journey actually leave my shoulders. It was not instantaneous. It took several minutes and a fair bit of conscious effort. But it went.

The mishap with the wall had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. I am not normally someone who panics about minor car damage, but there is something about being in a foreign place, tired, slightly lost, that amplifies every small thing. Sitting there in the late afternoon warmth, I realised how much of my holiday anxiety is self-generated, how often I turn manageable situations into dramas. The stone wall had not cared. The sat nav had been right all along. I had nearly talked myself out of a perfectly lovely arrival because I could not trust that things might simply work out.

When the sun began to drop towards the horizon, painting the low hills in shades of amber and rose, I went back inside and properly explored. The bedrooms were simple, whitewashed, with shutters that actually kept the light out. The bathroom had one of those electric water heaters that requires a bit of patience, but the pressure was decent and the towels were unexpectedly fluffy. I made a cup of tea with the little kettle, because old habits, and carried it back outside.

The first evening was not dramatic. I did not go anywhere or do anything remarkable. I sat by the pool in my wrinkled travel clothes, drank my tea, and watched the sky change colour over the Mediterranean. A gecko appeared on the wall, froze when it saw me, then carried on about its business. I took this as a sign that I had been accepted, temporarily at least, into the local order of things. The bumper could wait until morning. The wall would still be there, indifferent and ancient. I had arrived, slightly battered but fundamentally intact, and that was enough.