I have never been so relieved to see a swimming pool in my life, and that includes the time I nearly got heatstroke in Benidorm as a teenager. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive from Reus Airport to our holiday home in Riudoms had been going suspiciously well. My wife had dozed off, the kids were unusually quiet in the back, and I had successfully navigated the hire car out of the car park without clipping a single bollard. I was, I told myself, basically a local now. Twenty minutes of Catalan countryside rolling past, all vineyards and low hills, and I was practically ready to buy a finca and start making my own olive oil.

That is when I missed the turning. Not by a little bit, either. I sailed past our little lane with the confidence of a man who definitely knew where he was going, and suddenly found myself in what my phone later told me was the outskirts of Montbrio del Camp. My wife opened one eye, looked at the unfamiliar roundabout, and said nothing. She did not need to. I did a loop, got back on track, and promptly missed the same turning again. This time because I was too busy explaining why I had missed it the first time. The third attempt involved actual indicators and a degree of humility I do not normally possess.

By the time I crunched up the gravel drive, I was ready for a cold drink and a lie-down. The property sat low and welcoming, cream walls and terracotta roof tiles that looked exactly like the photos but somehow more solid, more real. A proper little Catalan cottage, not one of those identikit villas that could be anywhere from Portugal to the Algarve. The garden was enclosed by a low wall draped with bougainvillea, that shocking magenta that seems almost aggressive in its beauty.

My youngest was out of the car before I had even turned the engine off, making a beeline for the pool. I cannot blame her. After two hours of recycled aeroplane air and my questionable navigation, that turquoise rectangle looked like something from a brochure. I stood there with my hand on the warm roof of the car and just breathed. The air smelled of pine and something herbal I could not identify, probably rosemary growing wild somewhere nearby.

Inside, the place had that particular stillness of a house that has been waiting. Cool tiles underfoot, wooden beams overhead, furniture that looked chosen rather than assembled from a catalogue. I immediately claimed the bedroom with the shuttered windows facing the garden. My wife raised an eyebrow but let it go. She knows I am a light sleeper and, more importantly, that I am still slightly embarrassed about the roundabout incident.

The kitchen opened onto a covered terrace with a long wooden table, the sort of setup that practically demands long lunches and slightly too much wine. I could already picture evenings out there, the kids finally asleep, the crickets going full pelt in the darkness. That is the thing about a place like this. It does not shout at you. It does not need to. It just quietly suggests a different rhythm, one where lunch takes three hours and nobody checks their phone.

By late afternoon, we had established our positions. The children were permanently poolside, emerging only for crisps and juice. My wife had unpacked with military efficiency and was now reading in a hammock she had discovered around the side of the house. I was in charge of the barbecue, a role I take extremely seriously despite having no particular talent for it. The local supermarket in Riudoms had provided thick Catalan sausages, bread still warm from the bakery section, and tomatoes that actually tasted of something. I stood there with smoke in my eyes, feeling genuinely content.

The mishap with the turning already felt like part of the story, not a disaster. That is the gift of arriving somewhere that feels right. The stress of the journey dissolves into anecdote. I thought about our usual holidays, the ones where we pack every day with activities and come home more tired than when we left. This was different. This was slower. This was the point.

That evening, we walked into the village proper, no more than ten minutes at a strolling pace. Riudoms is not a place that puts on airs. A few narrow streets, a church tower visible above the rooftops, locals sitting outside bars with small beers and even smaller dogs. We found a place doing simple grilled fish and ate outside under an awning while my daughter practised her three words of Spanish on a very patient waiter. He pretended to understand. She pretended she had meant whatever she actually said. Everyone was happy.

Back at the house, the pool glowed faintly in the darkness from the underwater lights. The kids were asleep in minutes, exhausted by sun and water and the unfamiliar excitement of a new place. My wife and I sat on that terrace with glasses of something local and red, not talking much, just listening to the night. Somewhere, a dog barked once and thought better of it.

I thought about my younger self, the one who needed holidays to be full of incident and story. I am not sure when that changed. Maybe it is age, or maybe it is just that I have finally learned to recognise the value of a week where the biggest decision is whether to swim before or after lunch. The wrong turnings, the minor embarrassments, they all fade into the texture of the thing. What remains is the warmth of the stone under your hand, the smell of herbs in the air, the particular blue of a pool that belongs to you for a few precious days.

I am already dreading the drive back to the airport. Not because I will get lost, though I almost certainly will. Because leaving this particular rhythm behind feels like a small grief, the kind you know you will get over but would rather not face just yet. For now, though, there is tomorrow's breakfast to think about, and another slow morning by the water, and perhaps another slightly burnt sausage with my name on it. Some holidays are about where you go. This one, I am slowly realising, is about how you let yourself be while you are there.