I have never been so grateful for air conditioning in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once spent a summer working in a kitchen with a broken extractor fan. The taxi from Palma airport had been pleasant enough, winding through roads lined with almond trees and the occasional sleepy finca, but by the time we pulled into Ses Covetes, the September heat had turned me into something resembling a melted ice lolly. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and promptly walked straight into a bougainvillea bush that I had failed to notice because I was too busy admiring the villa's whitewashed facade. The driver, bless him, pretended not to notice as I extracted a bright pink flower from my hair and tried to look like I had meant to do it.

Thalassa D'es Trenc sits in that glorious pocket of southern Majorca where the island seems to exhale. September, I was rapidly learning, is when the island belongs to the locals again. The August crowds have vanished like morning dew, leaving behind empty stretches of road and restaurant tables that do not require military planning to secure. Our villa had that lovely faded elegance you find in proper Mediterranean places, not the polished pretension of somewhere trying too hard. Terracotta tiles, wooden shutters, a pool that glittered with that particular blue you only seem to get when the sky has been uninterrupted for weeks.

I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of someone who had been up since four in the morning and immediately made for the outdoor kitchen. This, I decided within approximately thirty seconds, was where I would be spending the majority of my waking hours. A proper brick barbecue, a long wooden table beneath a pergola dripping with vines, and enough space to swing several cats simultaneously. The previous night's rain, apparently uncharacteristic for the time of year, had left everything smelling of warm earth and geraniums. My partner found me standing there with my eyes closed, inhaling like someone at a wine tasting, and gently suggested I might want to unpack before I started planning a dinner party for twelve.

The pool became our immediate priority, as these things do when the thermometer is having a moment. September water in Majorca is not the brisk shock of June, nor the bath-like warmth of August peak. It hits that perfect middle ground where you actually swim rather than just wallow, where you can do a few lengths without feeling like you are exercising in soup. I floated on my back and watched a hawk circle overhead, thinking about how I would describe this to friends back home without sounding like someone from a travel brochure. The truth is, there is something quietly transformative about that first afternoon of a holiday, when the journey tension finally drains from your shoulders and you remember how to do absolutely nothing without guilt.

Evening brought the kind of soft golden light that makes amateur photographers of us all. We wandered down to the local stretch of coast, that extraordinary Es Trenc area with its pale sand and water in shades I did not think existed outside filtered photographs. September evenings here stretch like warm toffee. Families were packing up their umbrellas, locals were walking dogs, and a few determined swimmers were making the most of the remaining light. I paddled in water that still held the day's heat and felt something in my chest loosen that I had not realised was tight.

Back at the villa, we sat with glasses of something cold and local, watching geckos dart across the walls. The cicadas were winding down their summer symphony, a noticeably thinner chorus than high season would bring. I thought about how we had almost booked for July, how we had nearly joined the sweating masses in peak season madness, and I smiled at my own good fortune. Sometimes the best travel decisions are the ones you stumble into rather than plan. The bougainvillea in my hair, the September hush, the particular slant of evening light across the pool, all of it felt like a secret we had somehow been let in on. I raised my glass to the geckos, to the fading summer, to the particular magic of being somewhere at exactly the right time.