I should have known the satnav was up to no good when it tried to send me through what looked suspiciously like someone's olive grove. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, there I was, bumping down a dusty track in a hire car the size of a postage stamp, convinced I was about to become an involuntary trespasser in rural Catalonia.

The mishap came five minutes later. I pulled over to check the map, opened the door without looking, and promptly sent a full bottle of water rolling down a gentle slope towards a very dignified-looking vineyard. I scrambled after it, doing that awkward half-run where you are trying to look casual and failing completely, and arrived at the bottom just as a local chap on a scooter puttered past. He gave me the sort of nod that said "tourist" without needing to translate a word. I retrieved my bottle, now slightly muddy, and decided dignity was overrated anyway.

The proper entrance, when I finally found it, was altogether more impressive. Santes Creus sits among rolling countryside that looks like someone has painted it slightly too perfectly to be real. The approach is all cypress trees and terracotta, with the sort of hush that makes you instinctively lower your voice. My little car suddenly felt even more ridiculous.

Stepping out properly this time, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Not the sharp citrus I had expected, but something warmer and earthier, herbs and sun-baked stone and that particular dusty sweetness you only seem to get in this corner of Spain. I stood there like a lemon, just breathing it in, until a gecko darted across the wall and reminded me I was supposed to be doing something productive.

The place itself has that lovely contradiction of being spacious enough to get lost in yet somehow cosy from the moment you arrive. Tall ceilings, cool tiles underfoot, windows that frame the countryside like deliberate paintings. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of someone who has been wearing the same socks for twelve hours and wandered straight out to the terrace.

Here is where I had my small moment of reflection. I had spent months fretting about this trip, about the driving, the language, whether I had packed the right adaptor. Yet standing there with a lukewarm bottle of water and dusty knees, watching swallows dart about the eaves, none of it mattered even slightly. The anxiety had been the journey, not the destination. Classic, really.

The pool caught the late afternoon light and looked so inviting I nearly jumped in fully clothed. Common sense prevailed, barely. Instead I found a sun lounger that had clearly been positioned by someone who understood exactly where the shade would fall at exactly this hour, and simply sat. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and thought better of it. A breeze stirred the pines.

By the time I roused myself to investigate the village, proper hunger had set in. The local shop, a ten-minute wander down a lane that smelled of jasmine and warm tarmac, provided bread, cheese, and a bottle of something local that I chose entirely based on the pleasing shape of the label. This is how I make all important decisions abroad, and it has served me adequately so far.

Back at Santes Creus, the evening light turned everything golden and slightly unreal. I ate my haphazard supper on the terrace, watched the swallows give way to bats, and felt that particular contentment that comes from knowing you have absolutely nothing pressing to do tomorrow except perhaps locate a better map.

The satnav, I noticed, had gone very quiet indeed. Probably for the best.