By the time we finally crawled out of Palma airport, I'd already made a classic rookie error. Somewhere between Gatwick and baggage reclaim, my partner had entrusted me with the hire car keys. I, in my infinite wisdom, had popped them in the cup holder while wrestling with a stubborn croissant wrapper, then spent twenty minutes in the car park convinced we'd been robbed. Turned out I'd simply sat on them. Not my finest hour, and certainly not the relaxed Mediterranean start I'd envisioned.

The drive east to Felanitx took longer than expected, mostly because I insisted on following what I called the "scenic route" and what my partner called "getting hopelessly lost among almond groves." Majorca's interior doesn't mess about with signposts. One minute you're on a proper road, the next you're sharing tarmac with a disinterested goat and wondering if your satnav has developed a sense of humour. The light, though. Even through my mild panic, I couldn't miss how the afternoon sun turned everything golden, those dry stone walls glowing like they'd been lit from within.

We found Flor De La Vida down a narrow lane just outside Felanitx proper, and I immediately understood why people bother with the hire car faff. The finca sat there like it had grown from the earth itself, all honey-coloured stone and terracotta roof tiles, surrounded by citrus trees and what I later learned was a properly ancient olive grove. My first thought was that it looked like somewhere your most together friend would get married. My second was that I desperately hoped I'd packed the right sort of sandals.

The key was in a lockbox, which of course I couldn't open because my hands were still slightly trembling from the driving. My partner took over with the patience of someone who has done this many times before. The moment we stepped inside, the temperature dropped deliciously. Thick walls, you see. The sort of walls that have seen off centuries of August heatwaves without breaking a sweat. The living space opened up with these beautiful wooden beams overhead, and someone had clearly put genuine thought into making it feel like a home rather than a rental. Actual books on shelves. A kitchen that looked like it had cooked proper meals, not just toasted sandwiches.

I made straight for the terrace, because that's what you do when you've been cooped up in planes and cars all day. The pool glimmered at me like a promise, and beyond it, those rolling hills dotted with more of those impossibly picturesque fincas. I stood there with a warm beer from the fridge, because we'd not reached a supermarket yet and desperate times call for desperate measures, and felt something in my shoulders actually begin to loosen.

Felanitx itself was a five-minute drive, close enough to be convenient, distant enough that the only sounds were cicadas and the occasional distant bark of a dog. That evening we wandered into town for a simple dinner, nothing ambitious, just some pan amb oli and grilled squid at a place where the waiter seemed genuinely pleased we hadn't demanded an English menu. I ate too much bread, drank too much local wine, and realised with some surprise that the key incident already felt like it belonged to someone else's holiday.

Back at the finca, we sat by the pool as the sky turned that particular violet-pink you only seem to get in the Mediterranean. My partner pointed out that I'd not once checked my work emails, which was probably the first time since 2019. I didn't have a clever reply. I just sat there, slightly sun-drunk, listening to the night settling around us, already plotting which terrace corner would become my morning coffee spot.

Some places announce themselves with drama. Flor De La Vida simply waited, warm and solid and quietly spectacular, for us to catch up with the pace it had been keeping all along.