I have to admit, the journey to our holiday home in Murcia did not get off to the most dignified start. Somewhere between Alicante airport and the town of Alhama de Murcia, I became absolutely convinced that the sat nav had developed a personal vendetta against me. There I was, confidently ignoring its third instruction to turn left, certain that my own sense of direction would prevail. Reader, it did not. We ended up down a farm track surrounded by lemon groves, with a very cross-looking goat as our only witness. My partner sat in blessed silence for a full minute before asking whether I fancied asking the goat for directions. I did not.

By the time we actually found the place, I was ready to kiss the gravel driveway. The villa sat there in the late afternoon sun, all whitewashed walls and terracotta roof tiles, looking thoroughly unbothered by my navigational incompetence. I dumped the bags with theatrical exhaustion and immediately went to explore the garden, where I promptly walked into a low-hanging branch of an olive tree. First impressions, it turns out, are best made with leaves in your hair.

The real magic began the next morning when I decided to go for what I promised would be a brief wander. I had spotted a path behind the villa that seemed to lead somewhere interesting, which in my experience usually means nowhere useful at all. This time, though, I struck gold. The track wound through scrubland dotted with wild rosemary and thyme, the smell rising up with every step. After twenty minutes of gentle uphill plodding, I found myself looking down into a hidden valley I could not have located again if you had paid me. An old stone shepherd's shelter sat crumbling at the bottom, surrounded by almond trees that someone had clearly planted decades ago and then simply forgotten about.

I sat on a rock and ate the orange I had wisely, for once, stuffed in my pocket. A family of partridges scuttled through the undergrowth, entirely unconcerned by my presence. It struck me then how much of my usual holiday planning involves trying to optimise every moment, tick off recommended spots, maximise the experience. Here I was, gloriously lost, with nothing but a dying phone battery and a half-eaten orange, and I felt more genuinely content than I had in months.

The following days became a gentle exercise in purposeful wandering. I found a tiny bar in the backstreets of Alhama where the owner spoke no English and my Spanish extends to ordering beer and apologising, which turned out to be the only vocabulary required. He produced tapas I did not ask for and could not identify, and we communicated in the universal language of pointing and appreciative noises. Another afternoon, chasing the sound of running water, I stumbled upon a natural pool in the Rio Alhama where locals were swimming, and they waved me in with the easy generosity of people who have never once consulted a travel guide.

On our final evening, I tried to retrace my steps to that shepherd's shelter to show my partner. Naturally, I failed completely. We found a different valley instead, equally beautiful, equally unmarked on any map I possessed. We watched the sun drop behind the mountains and I confessed my earlier navigational shame, the goat, the olive branch, the lot. He laughed for a solid minute and said that getting lost appeared to be the only thing I was genuinely skilled at on this holiday.

He was not wrong, and I would not have had it any other way.