I have never been so relieved to see a set of apartment keys in my life, and I had not even got lost yet. That came later, repeatedly and gloriously.

The journey from Palma airport had started well enough. Hire car acquired, sunglasses on, that holiday optimism pumping through my veins. I had done the sensible thing and screenshotted the directions to Arcadia 50 in Cala Ratjada, because obviously I was not going to pay roaming charges like some sort of amateur. What I had not done was check whether my phone would actually load that screenshot without signal. Spoiler: it would not. Somewhere near Capdepera I took a wrong turn that felt right, then another that felt righter still, and suddenly I was on a road so narrow that my wing mirrors were basically brushing the stone walls on both sides. I stopped to reverse into a farm entrance, misjudged it entirely, and somehow ended up with my rear bumper resting against a stack of empty orange crates that wobbled but mercifully did not topple. A man on a scooter watched the whole thing without changing expression, then puttered past as if this were perfectly normal Tuesday behaviour. It probably is.

By the time I found the Arcadia complex, sweat had happened. Proper, undignified sweat. I had driven past it twice because the entrance is tucked between two other buildings in that typically unassuming Mediterranean way. The reception area was cool and smelled of floor polish and something floral I could not identify. The woman handed me my keys and a map with the patient air of someone who has seen many people arrive in precisely my condition.

The apartment itself was up on the first floor, and I will be honest: I opened the door expecting the usual holiday let compromise. You know the drill. Functional. Slightly tired. A sofa that has absorbed decades of other people's sunscreen. Instead I stood there like a lemon, cases still in hand, genuinely surprised. The place was bright and properly spacious, with a balcony that looked down onto the pool area and beyond that, a glimpse of the sea that made me forget entirely about my orange crate adventure. The kitchen was actually equipped for cooking rather than just reheating, which felt almost aggressively optimistic about my holiday intentions.

I dumped my bags and did what any sensible person would do: made a cup of tea and stood on that balcony watching a German family below establish their territorial claim on sun loungers with the efficiency of a military operation. The pool itself was a decent size, not one of those plunge pools that photographs flatter, and the gardens around it were properly maintained with palms and bougainvillea doing their colourful thing.

That first evening I intended to walk to the harbour for dinner. Intended. The thing about Cala Ratjada is that it is not huge, but it is also not built on a grid system designed by people who understood that some of us have no sense of direction whatsoever. I took a left that felt harbour-ish, found myself in a residential street of pastel houses with actual locals sitting outside, took another left to correct, and somehow ended up at a tiny cove I did not know existed. Cala Gat, apparently, though there was no sign and no one to ask. Just a handful of local teenagers jumping off rocks into water so clear it seemed almost show-offy, and an old man fishing with a patience I envied.

I sat on a rock and watched until my stomach complained. Found the harbour eventually by following my nose toward cooking garlic. Had grilled squid at a place where the waiter seemed genuinely surprised I had wandered in, in that nice way that suggested I had accidentally found somewhere not entirely aimed at tourists. Paid less than I expected. Walked back via a different wrong turn, discovered a bakery already preparing the next morning's ensaimadas, the smell drifting out into warm darkness.

This became the pattern. Every day I set out with some modest intention and every day I got diverted. The second morning I meant to find the main beach and instead followed a path that led up past old military installations, all rusted gun emplacements and unexpected sea views, ending at a lighthouse I had not known was there. The third day I took a coastal walk that petered out into nothing, forcing me back through farmland where a farmer showed me his almond trees and gave me a handful of the previous season's nuts, still good, still sweet.

I never did manage to take the direct route anywhere. The apartment became my reliable base, my place of return, somewhere to dump sandy shoes and make that evening cuppa before heading out again with only vague destination in mind. The Arcadia complex itself was quiet in that particular way of places slightly set back from the main action, not party-central but not dead either, just a comfortable middle ground of families and couples and the occasional solo traveller like myself, all of us nodding recognition in the lift, none of us becoming friends because that is not really the point.

On my last morning I packed with the usual holiday melancholy, then took one final deliberate wrong turn on the way to return the hire car, found myself at a viewpoint I had somehow missed entirely, looked down at Cala Ratjada spread below with its harbour and its unexpected coves and its maze of streets, and felt that particular satisfaction of knowing I had not really seen the place properly at all, which meant I would have to come back and get lost all over again.