I will never forget the moment I realised our hire car boot was not, in fact, going to close on three large suitcases, a buggy, and my mother-in-law's emergency fold-up chair. We were still in the Palma airport car park, the midday sun already doing its best to melt the tarmac, and my husband was performing what can only be described as automotive Tetris while I stood there holding a warm bottle of water and our youngest, who had just discovered how to make a noise like a deflating balloon.

Forty minutes later, with the chair strapped into the back seat like a slightly indignant passenger, we finally set off for Binissalem. The drive inland took us through countryside that looked like someone had painted it specifically to make you feel guilty about your own garden. Terracotta earth, rows of vines, the occasional stone farmhouse sitting there looking smug about its rustic charm. I wound down the window and immediately wound it back up again when the heat hit me like a hairdryer.

Finding Sa Terra Grosa involved a satnav argument, a wrong turn past someone's very private-looking olive grove, and a brief but tense exchange about whether "turn left at the big tree" constituted proper directions. But then there it was, tucked behind its own little lane, and I felt that lovely holiday feeling settle over me like a warm blanket.

The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Not the awkward, something-is-definitely-wrong quiet, but the proper, deep stillness of a place that has not yet learned about rush hour. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, a lazy afternoon bark with no particular urgency. The house sat there in its honey-coloured stone, looking like it had been waiting patiently for someone to appreciate it.

I will admit that my first act upon entering was not to admire the traditional beamed ceilings or the charmingly uneven terracotta floors. It was to locate the nearest working tap and drink directly from it like a camel who had crossed the Sahara. The children had already vanished into the bedrooms to conduct their usual territorial negotiations, and my husband was outside doing that thing men do where they pace the perimeter of a property as if assessing it for defensive purposes.

The kitchen smelled faintly of lemons and wood polish. Someone, presumably the owners, had left a small bowl of local apricots on the counter, and I ate one standing at the sink, juice running down my wrist, watching a lizard do press-ups on the garden wall. The pool glimmered at me through the open door, and I made a solemn vow to be in it within the hour, complicated logistics of family swimming be damned.

By late afternoon we had established our pattern. The children had claimed the twin bedroom with the blue shutters and were engaged in a whispered conference about who got which pillow. My mother-in-law had installed herself by the covered terrace with a book and a glass of something local and white. I sat on a sun lounger that creaked reassuringly under my weight, watching the light change over the vineyard-covered hills, and thought about how rarely I allow myself to simply stop.

There was no grand epiphany, no dramatic realisation. Just the slow dawning awareness that I had been holding my shoulders somewhere near my ears for approximately eleven months, and that here, in this slightly wonky, beautifully unhurried house in the middle of Mallorca's wine country, they might finally have permission to come down.

The mishap with the car boot already felt like it belonged to someone else's holiday, someone more organised and less inclined to overpack. I ate another apricot, made a mental note to buy a dozen more before we left, and listened to my children arguing gently about who had seen the biggest lizard.

Some arrivals are about the destination. This one was about the exhale.