I have never been so relieved to see a set of wooden gates in all my life. Twelve hours, two flights, one questionable airport sandwich, and a hire car that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and regret. That was the tally so far. And then, somewhere between Alicante airport and the outskirts of Murcia, I missed the turning for La Aljorra not once but twice. The first time because I was admiring a very handsome mountain. The second time because I was busy swearing about missing it the first time.

Sat navs are liars. This is my firm belief. Mine had the confidence of a man who has never been wrong, sending me down lanes barely wide enough for a determined scooter. I passed lemon groves, abandoned farmhouses, and one very judgmental goat. By the time I spotted the sign for Los Martinez de la Aljorra, I had developed what I can only describe as a profound spiritual connection with the clutch pedal.

The gates opened onto a gravel drive that crunched satisfyingly under the wheels. Proper gravel, the kind that announces your arrival like a polite but firm cough. And there it was. A low, whitewashed villa with terracotta roof tiles and wooden shutters, the sort of place that looks like it has been waiting patiently for someone to bother turning up. Bougainvillea scrambled up one wall in violent shades of pink. A palm tree stood nearby looking thoroughly pleased with itself.

I turned off the engine. Silence rushed in. Not the awkward kind, but the thick, warm, honey-coloured silence of the Spanish countryside. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, considered its options, and apparently went back to sleep.

The key was exactly where the property notes said it would be, which surprised me more than it should have. I am the sort of person who expects small administrative failures at every turn. The door opened with a satisfying weight to it, and I stepped inside to find the tiled floor deliciously cool against my feet. The living room smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. Beamed ceilings, comfortable-looking sofas in sandy colours, and French doors that opened onto a terrace. I walked straight through without putting my bag down, as if pulled by invisible string.

The terrace was the thing that did me in properly. A long stone patio with a pergola draped in some climbing plant I could not identify and did not need to. Beyond it, the private pool caught the afternoon light and held it, turquoise and tempting. I had not brought a towel within reach. I did not care. I sat on the edge with my jeans rolled up and my feet in the water, and I laughed out loud at absolutely nothing except the fact that I had made it. The goat had not been my final adversary. I had won.

The kitchen, when I eventually investigated, had everything arranged with the neat practicality of someone who understands that holidaymakers arrive hungry and confused. Proper coffee maker. A fridge that hummed contentedly. Even a bowl of fresh lemons on the counter, which I later learned came from the tree at the bottom of the garden. I stood there eating bread and olive oil at half past four in the afternoon, still in my travel-wrinkled shirt, and felt something in my chest loosen that I had not realised was tight.

Evening came on slowly, the way it does in that part of Spain, not rushing anything. I found the outdoor barbecue area, though my ambitions did not yet extend beyond opening a bottle of local wine and watching the sky turn from gold to pink to a deep, satisfied blue. The mountains I had admired so disastrously earlier now formed a dark silhouette against the last light. I raised my glass to them in something between apology and gratitude.

I slept that night with the shutters open and the sound of cicadas pressing gently against the darkness. No traffic. No alarms. Just the occasional rustle of something small and unconcerned in the garden. I woke once, confused about where I was, and the realisation that I was somewhere unfamiliar and entirely welcome felt like a small gift I had given myself without knowing it.

The next morning I found the fig tree. But that, like the proper exploration of La Aljorra village itself, barely a few minutes down the road, is a story for another time.