I'd never driven a hire car through a roundabout while holding a croissant between my teeth before, and I cannot recommend it. The croissant, purchased in a panic at Palma airport because I'd convinced myself we'd starve before reaching Capdepera, had seemed essential. It now lay in crumbly ruins across my lap, my wife was laughing so hard she couldn't read the directions, and our youngest had already declared this "the best holiday ever" based solely on pastry-based chaos.

We'd chosen S'heretat for no grand reason other than it looked properly Majorcan. Not one of those glass-fronted apartment blocks where you could be anywhere from Alicante to Alicante. This was a finca-style place, all honey-coloured stone and terracotta, tucked into the countryside just outside Capdepera itself. The photographs showed a pool that looked almost indecently blue, and enough outdoor space that our two children might, theoretically, exhaust themselves into early bedtimes. A parent can dream.

The drive from the airport took us through that strange Majorcan transition: coastal bustle giving way to interior calm, then suddenly you're among pine trees and dry stone walls, with the occasional goat giving you a look of profound judgement. We missed the turning twice. The satnav developed what I can only describe as a personality disorder, insisting we drive through someone's olive grove before admitting its error with a small, embarrassed ding.

The final approach to S'heretat is down a narrow track that demands you slow down and accept your fate. This is not a place you arrive at in a hurry. I found this deeply irritating for approximately ninety seconds, then deeply soothing for the remainder of our stay. The property sits among its own grounds, not grandly but comfortably, like someone who knows they don't need to show off. The stone walls are thick enough to withstand centuries, and probably have. There's a covered terrace where someone, presumably a previous guest, had left behind a paperback in German and a single flip-flop, which my daughter adopted as a treasured artifact.

Our first evening, we did nothing ambitious whatsoever. This was the revelation. We'd brought swimming costumes, walking shoes, elaborate plans for cultural excursions. Instead, we sat on that terrace with supermarket wine and bread and cheese, watching the light change over the hills. The children, miraculously, played an actual game involving a ball and counting, rather than demanding screens. My wife and I kept catching each other's eye with slight disbelief.

Capdepera village itself sits perhaps ten minutes' walk up the road, though we didn't make it that first night. Too comfortable. Too lazy. Too unexpectedly content with doing absolutely nothing in particular. The castle there would wait, as would the beaches at Cala Mesquida, as would all the proper holiday activities I'd researched with such diligence.

I think sometimes I plan holidays with the anxious energy of someone trying to justify their existence. Every moment must be optimised, every experience captured and rated. S'heretat, in that first evening, quietly dismantled this approach. The croissant incident had set a tone, really: things would go slightly wrong, and it wouldn't matter at all.

The pool, when we finally tested it the next morning, was indeed indecently blue. The children shrieked. I floated on my back and looked at pine trees against sky. Someone, probably me, would eventually need to cook something or find a shop or organise an outing. But not yet. For now, this was enough, and I was quietly grateful to be in a place that asked so little of us, and gave back so much simple, unhurried peace.