I have never been so relieved to see a goat in my life.

The journey from Murcia airport had already involved a missed turn, a heated debate with a sat nav that insisted we were driving through a field, and the slow realisation that my Spanish topped out at ordering beer and apologising. My partner Dave was navigating with the confidence of a man who had once visited Benidorm in 2003. We were, by every measurable standard, lost.

The mishap came as we finally spotted the gates of our holiday home, a handsome finca surrounded by citrus groves near the village of Sucina. In my excitement, I leapt from the still-moving hire car to open a gate. The gate was not locked. The gate, in fact, swung back with theatrical slowness and clipped my elbow, sending me sprawling into a ditch of such perfect comedic depth that Dave actually wound down the window rather than getting out. "You alright, love?" he called, in the tone of a man watching a pigeon walk into a glass door.

I emerged with dignity somewhat diminished and a lemon in my pocket that I could not explain.

The property itself was lovely, all terracotta and white walls, with a pool that caught the afternoon light like a promise. But it was the people who made those first hours unforgettable. Within twenty minutes of our arrival, a small man in a faded Real Madrid shirt appeared at the fence. This was Miguel, the neighbour, who spoke no English and possessed the expressive eyebrows of a man who had seen many British tourists do foolish things.

He gestured at my elbow, which was blooming into quite a bruise, then at the gate, then at the sky, as if connecting these elements in some cosmic joke I could not yet grasp. Through a mixture of mime, pointing, and what I can only describe as aggressive friendliness, he conveyed that he would bring us lemons. Proper lemons, not ditch lemons. He returned with a paper bag and his wife, Conchita, who took one look at my elbow and made a noise like a disappointed kettle.

Conchita spoke rapid Spanish at me for several minutes while applying something herbal and pungent to my wound. I understood perhaps three words, yet somehow grasped the entire narrative: I was foolish, she had warned Miguel about that gate in 1987, and I was fortunate to have such a good neighbour. She patted my cheek with the rough affection of a woman who had raised four sons and found them all exhausting.

Later, as Dave attempted to assemble a barbecue with the grim determination of a man who had never successfully assembled anything, another figure appeared. This was Pepe, who introduced himself as the pool man though he seemed to perform no actual pool duties. He sat on our wall, smoking, and offered commentary on Dave's efforts with the detached wisdom of a sports commentator. "Muy complicado," he observed, which required no translation. When Dave finally produced something recognisably barbecue-shaped, Pepe applauded. Slowly. Sarcastically. I liked him enormously.

That evening, Miguel returned with wine made by his brother. Conchita brought bread still warm from the oven of someone she referred to as "la loca," which I chose to interpret affectionately. We sat by our not-yet-blue pool, surrounded by people we had known for mere hours, and I felt something shift. The embarrassment of the ditch, the chaos of the journey, the lingering smell of Conchita's mysterious ointment, all of it settled into something like belonging.

Dave raised his plastic cup of brother's wine. "To Murcia," he said.

"To Murcia," I agreed, and meant the place, certainly, but meant the people more.