I'd booked Casablanca in Sa Font de Sa Cala after three months of staring at spreadsheets and dreaming of anything that wasn't my kitchen ceiling. The journey from Manchester had been the usual package holiday special: a dawn alarm, a bus driver who treated the M56 like his personal rally stage, and a flight packed with people already wearing swimwear at nine in the morning. By the time I landed at Palma, I had that particular british travel glow: slightly sunburned through the aeroplane window, dehydrated, and convinced my spine had compressed by three inches.

The drive northeast took about an hour, winding through countryside that looked like someone had cranked the saturation slider right up. Almond groves, stone walls, the occasional finca perched on a hillside like it had grown there organically. I was doing well, navigating competently, feeling rather pleased with myself. Then I reached Sa Font de Sa Cala itself.

The village is tiny, peaceful, the sort of place where you half expect to see an old chap leading a donkey. I found my turning, spotted the villa up a gentle slope, and promptly reversed into a stone wall while trying to let a cyclist pass. A very small wall. More of a decorative boundary, really. But enough to produce a crunch that made us both wince. The cyclist, a tanned german in lycra, gave me a look of such profound sympathy that I wanted to explain I wasn't normally this person. I absolutely was this person, of course. I'd just hoped to keep it hidden for at least twenty minutes.

I abandoned the car and walked the last bit, gravel crunching under sandals that had somehow become uncomfortable in transit. And then I saw it properly. Casablanca sits there with this quiet confidence, white walls catching the afternoon light, surrounded by pine trees that smell like summer itself. The mishap with the wall suddenly felt like a small toll paid for entry into somewhere genuinely lovely.

The key was in the lockbox, which I fumbled with for longer than I'd admit, still slightly flustered. The door opened onto cool tiles and that particular hush of a house that's been waiting in the warmth. I dumped my bag with the grace of a sack of potatoes and just stood there. High ceilings, simple clean furniture, those big doors leading out to the terrace. Through them, I could see the pool glinting, and beyond that, a glimpse of the Cala Ratjada coastline.

I made straight for the terrace, barefoot by now, and the view stopped me properly. Not dramatic, not showy. Just that soft mediterranean blue, the curve of the bay, pine fringes. A couple of boats drifted lazily. I could hear nothing but insects and a distant dog. After months of traffic and notifications and the general low-grade roar of normal life, it felt almost indecently peaceful.

I found the outdoor kitchen area, all built-in barbecue and workspace, and immediately started planning meals I'd probably never cook with the ambition I felt in that moment. The pool tempted, but I was too grimy from travel, too aware of my own journey-stink. Instead I sat on a lounger with a warm can of fanta from my bag, still technically lunch in my book, and let my shoulders actually drop for what felt like the first time that year.

The german cyclist passed again on the road below. He didn't look up. I raised my can in a private toast to him, to minor vehicular embarrassment, to finally being somewhere that smelled of pine and sunscreen and absolutely nothing urgent whatsoever.

The wall could wait. The week stretched ahead, gloriously empty, and I was already certain I'd remember this particular arrival for a very long time.