I'd been dreaming of blue skies and a cold beer for roughly the last six hours of driving, which probably explains why I completely missed the turning for La Torre Golf Resort and ended up doing a very slow, very embarrassing loop of a nearby roundabout while three Spanish lorries watched with what I can only describe as polite concern. Sat nav Helen, as I've nicknamed her, kept her cool. "Recalculating," she said, in that tone that absolutely judged me.

The journey from Alicante Airport had been straightforward enough - straight down the AP-7, past the salt flats and all that scrubby, beautiful countryside that makes you feel properly abroad. My partner Dave had done the first leg, then promptly fallen asleep in the passenger seat, leaving me to navigate the final stretch alone. He's useless with directions anyway, so I suppose it was always going to be me who missed the exit.

When we finally rolled through the resort gates, I immediately felt that lovely shift in atmosphere. You know the one. Tiled roofs everywhere, palm trees doing that satisfying sway, and everything looking impossibly clean and planned. The security guard gave us a friendly nod - clearly used to lost Brits circling back - and pointed us toward our townhouse.

Parking up, I stretched legs that had forgotten what walking felt like. Dave emerged from the car like a bear from hibernation, blinking and asking if we were there yet. Bless him. The first thing that struck me was the quiet. Not eerie quiet, but that peaceful hush of a place built around a golf course, where the main soundtrack is distant thwacks and the occasional cheerful swear word.

Our place was one of those smart terraced numbers with a little front patio and terracotta pots that someone else definitely waters. I fumbled with the lockbox code, dropping the keys twice because my hands were still vibrating from the motorway, and practically fell through the door in my eagerness to collapse.

The inside hit that sweet spot between modern and comfortable. Cool tiles underfoot, decent-sized kitchen that already had me planning a trip to the local Mercadona, and sliding doors that opened onto a back terrace with views I hadn't earned yet but was absolutely going to enjoy. Dave made straight for the fridge, because of course he did, and let out a satisfied noise at the discovery of the ice tray already frozen. Small victories.

I wandered outside with my now-found beer and just stood there for a moment. The golf course stretched out all green and manicured, with those strange little sand traps that look like someone dropped giant sugar cubes from above. Beyond it, the Murcia hills sat hazy in the late afternoon light. I'd expected to feel tired and grumpy after the journey and my roundabout humiliation, but instead I felt that particular holiday lightness start to creep in.

Dave joined me, clinking his bottle against mine, and we didn't say much. Sometimes you don't need to. We'd made it, eventually, and somewhere out there was a supermarket dinner to cobble together and an early night that we'd definitely promised ourselves but probably wouldn't manage.

The mishap with the roundabout already felt like part of the story rather than a disaster. That's the thing about first impressions - they have a way of forgiving the journey that got you there.