I should have known the holiday gods were having a laugh when I managed to leave my passport in the glovebox of a hire car at Palma airport. There I stood, forty-five minutes into a queue that was moving slower than a Spanish lunch break, patting down pockets with increasing panic while the family behind me sighed in that particularly British way. Cue a frantic sprint back to the car park, a sheepish grin at the rental desk, and a very sweaty arrival at Can Taco in Galilea about two hours later than planned.

Galilea sits up in the Tramuntana hills, and the drive there is not for the faint-hearted. Narrow lanes, hairpin bends, and the occasional goat giving you a look that says "you're lost, aren't you?" By the time I wound my way up to the village, my knuckles were white and my sat nav had given up entirely, resorting to a sort of electronic sulk. But then I rounded the final corner and there it was: a traditional stone farmhouse with terracotta roof tiles, nestled among olive groves with views that made me forget every muttered curse of the journey.

The first thing that struck me about Can Taco was the quiet. Not the awkward, oppressive kind, but the sort of peaceful hush that makes you realise how much noise you normally live with. No traffic, no planes overhead, just the distant clink of a goat bell and the breeze rustling through the pines. I stood in the driveway for a good minute, doing that thing where you just breathe and try to convince yourself you've actually arrived.

The owners had left the key in a clever little lockbox, which was just as well given my track record that day. Stepping inside, the place smelled of lemons and clean linen. The kitchen had that wonderful rustic simplicity: terracotta floors, wooden beams, a proper farmhouse table that immediately made me want to linger over long breakfasts. I opened the fridge to find a bottle of local wine and some fresh oranges, which I took as a very civilised welcome. The wine lasted about twenty minutes, if I'm honest. It had been that sort of day.

I wandered out to the terrace, and that's when the real magic hit. The view stretches across the valley towards the distant sea, with Galilea's church bell tower poking above the rooftops below. Terracotta pots of geraniums lined the edge, and a battered old barbecue sat in the corner looking like it had hosted decades of summer evenings. I found myself a sun-lounger, kicked off my shoes, and just sat there watching the light change as afternoon drifted into evening. The mishap at the airport already felt like it had happened to someone else, some frantic earlier version of me who hadn't yet learned to slow down.

The pool was tempting, but I was too busy being horizontal and smug. Instead I made a mental note to explore the village properly tomorrow, maybe walk down to the local bar for a coffee and attempt some very basic Spanish. For now, though, I was content to do absolutely nothing, which is rather the point of places like this.

As the sun dipped behind the hills and the first stars appeared, I poured another glass of that welcome wine and allowed myself a small moment of self-congratulation. Yes, I'd made a right mess of the arrival. Yes, I'd probably aged myself five years on those mountain roads. But sitting there, with the warmth of the stone still radiating from the walls and nothing but crickets for company, I knew I'd found exactly the right place to properly switch off. Some holidays take a while to get going. This one had already won me over, passport panic and all.