I have never been so happy to see a washing machine in my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey to Ca Na Martina started well enough. Flight to Palma, hire car sorted, toddler singing in the back seat. We even remembered to stop at a supermarket in Cala d'Or for essentials: bread, cheese, something pretending to be chorizo, and a bottle of wine that cost less than a London coffee. I was feeling smug. Too smug, as it turned out.

The villa itself sits in a quiet corner near Cala d'Or's marina, tucked down a lane that feels properly residential rather than touristy. We found it easily enough, punched in the key code, and stepped into cool tiled floors and that particular hush of a shuttered Spanish afternoon. The living room opens onto a terrace with a pool just begging to be jumped into. My daughter had other priorities.

"Toilet," she announced, with the urgency only a four-year-old can muster.

I grabbed our supermarket bag, the one with the wine and the not-chorizo, and rushed her to the nearest bathroom. Mission accomplished, I emerged to find my husband staring at the kitchen with an expression I can only describe as politely horrified.

"The bag," he said.

I looked down. The bottom had given way. The wine was fine, thank goodness. But the chorizo imposter had rolled under a chair, the cheese was developing a new shape, and the bread had landed in a decorative bowl of potpourri. Worse, far worse, our entire supply of toddler pants and my one decent dress had been in that bag too, now soaking in a puddle of something I chose not to investigate.

This is when I spotted the washing machine. It sat there in its utility corner, white and wonderful, and I actually said "thank you" out loud. Not to anyone in particular. Just to the universe, or perhaps Indesit.

While the first load spun, we properly explored. Ca Na Martina is one of those honest, straightforward villas that knows exactly what it is. No pretension, no designer flourishes, just solid comfort. The kitchen has everything you actually need, including a kettle that does not take fifteen minutes to boil, which I count as a genuine luxury abroad. Bedrooms are simple, cool, with those excellent wooden shutters that turn morning into a suggestion rather than a demand. The pool is the real star, not oversized but perfectly private, surrounded by a terrace that catches sun until late afternoon.

We spent that first evening doing very little, which was precisely the point. My husband fished bread fragments from the potpourri while I hung tiny trousers on the outdoor line. We ate emergency crisps and the salvaged cheese on the terrace, watching the sky go that particular Mediterranean pink. Daughter splashed in the pool until her fingers wrinkled. The wine, miraculously unharmed, tasted better than it had any right to.

There is something about these cottage-style holidays that strips everything back to what matters. No hotel buffet to rush for, no entertainment schedule, no fighting for sun loungers with a towel at dawn. Just your own pace, your own space, and the small comedy of a carrier bag betrayal to remind you not to take anything too seriously.

By morning the pants were dry, the potpourri had been discreetly binned, and we walked down to Cala d'Or's marina for pastries and coffee. The beach at Cala Gran was ten minutes away, the water that impossible turquoise you forget exists until you see it again. We built sandcastles, paddled, did all the predictable things that somehow never feel predictable when you are actually doing them.

That first evening set the tone. Not perfection, but something better: ease. The kind of holiday where a bread-related disaster becomes the story you tell later, laughing, while someone passes the wine that survived.