I have never felt more like a proper Brit abroad than the moment I realised, somewhere between the airport and Santa Gertrudis, that I had packed fourteen pairs of pants, three chargers, and precisely zero actual euros. The taxi driver, a wiry chap called Toni with a moustache that deserved its own postcode, found this absolutely hilarious. "Your cards work everywhere," he said, waving my panic away with one hand while steering us through almond groves with the other. "Relax. You are on Ibiza time now."

Ibiza time, it turns out, moves differently. We rolled up to Villa Pranayama down a dusty track lined with wild fennel, and I was still frantically googling "nearest ATM" when the front gate swung open. There stood Margarita, the property manager, holding a basket of lemons and looking at me with the patient expression of someone who has seen every possible holiday meltdown. "You need cash for the bakery," she said, producing two fifty-euro notes from her apron pocket like a magician. "Pay me tomorrow. Or don't. We will see each other again."

The villa itself was one of those whitewashed Ibizan fincas that looks effortless but probably cost someone a small fortune in limestone render. Tall sabina beams, polished concrete floors, and a pool that caught the afternoon light like someone had spilled a bottle of gin into a mirror. But honestly? The building was almost irrelevant. Within ten minutes, Margarita had sat me down with a hierbas, insisted I try her sister's sobrasada, and was explaining that the neighbour's rooster was called Julio Iglesias "because he never stops performing."

That neighbour, Pepe, appeared over the dry-stone wall approximately six minutes later. He was seventy-something, wore a vest that had seen better decades, and was carrying a ladder for no reason I could discern. "You English?" he called out, not waiting for an answer. "My brother lives in Luton. Terrible place. He loves it." He stayed for twenty minutes, detailing his opinions on British weather, British driving, and British attempts at paella, which apparently he had once endured at a cousin's wedding in Watford. "Rice soup," he said, shuddering visibly. "With peas. Criminal."

By evening I had met three more characters without really trying. There was Concha from the finca opposite, who walked her ancient dachshund past the villa every evening at precisely the same time, always carrying a glass of red wine that she never seemed to finish. "For my nerves," she told me, though the dog looked considerably more anxious than she did. There was young Marco, who delivered the bread each morning on a scooter held together with optimism and cable ties, and who spoke in such thick Eivissenc that Margarita sometimes had to translate even for other locals. And there was Toni again, the taxi driver, who apparently lived in the village and had mentioned to absolutely everyone that I had arrived penniless.

Dinner that first night was at a roadside grill Margarita recommended, where the owner, a former DJ called Paco, refused to show me a menu. "I cook what I have," he said, presenting me with grilled squid and potatoes that tasted of woodsmoke and patience. He sat down opposite me uninvited, poured himself a beer from my jug, and spent the meal explaining why he had left the club scene in 2003. "Too many people being interesting," he said. "Here, I just feed them. Much better conversation."

Walking back to the villa past the silent almond trees, slightly hierbas-happy and carrying leftover bread that Concha had insisted I take for "Julio Iglesias, he likes a bit of crumb," I realised something. I had come to Ibiza chasing a particular image of escape, the private pool and the whitewashed walls. But what had actually happened, what was already happening, was that a collection of gloriously unhurried strangers had simply folded me into their afternoon. The villa was lovely, genuinely lovely, with its outdoor shower and its shaded terrace and its absolute peace. Yet standing there in the dark, fumbling for the gate key while a rooster I now knew by name crowed prematurely from next door, I understood that the place was only the beginning. The real discovery was Margarita with her emergency euros, Pepe with his unsolicited opinions, Paco with his stolen beer and his abandoned DJ career. I had arrived thinking I needed cash, a working phone, a plan. What I actually needed was to be slightly useless for a while, to let the village notice, to let it respond in its own unhurried, generous, gently mocking way.

Julio Iglesias crowed again, definitely early, definitely loud. Somewhere Concha probably raised her wine glass in solidarity. I found the key, eventually, and let myself into a kitchen that smelled of lemons and someone else's kindness. Tomorrow I would find an ATM, probably, and pay Margarita back, definitely. But not too early. Ibiza time, after all. You cannot rush these things.