I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong villa. There we were, three hours after leaving Alicante airport, standing on a doorstep in the blazing Murcia sunshine while I jabbed a key code at a door that stubbornly refused to budge. My wife was giving me that look. The kids were already melting into the pavement. Turns out I'd confidently marched us two doors down from our actual place, distracted by the sight of a particularly magnificent lemon tree. The actual owner of that villa appeared on her balcony looking deeply unimpressed, and I performed what I can only describe as a Mediterranean walk of shame back to the correct property.

Our proper place, when we finally found it, was a proper little gem. A traditional Spanish villa tucked into a quiet residential pocket, the sort where you can hear nothing but the whir of a distant lawnmower and the odd dog having opinions about the afternoon. Whitewashed walls, terracotta roof tiles, a private pool glinting at us like a promise. The kids were in their swimming costumes before I'd even managed to haul the first suitcase through the door.

The villa had that lovely lived-in feel, not one of those sterile rental places where you're afraid to sit on the furniture. A proper kitchen with actual cooking knives that could cut something, which mattered because we'd grandly declared this a self-catering holiday to save money and "live like locals." The reality, of course, was that we immediately drove to the nearest Mercadona and filled a trolley with things we didn't need, including three types of chorizo and a watermelon the size of a small child. I have never felt more British than standing in a Spanish supermarket at six in the evening, baffled by the ham selection, while my children begged for biscuits with chocolate faces on them.

That first evening, we didn't do much of anything remarkable, which was precisely the point. We ate bread and cheese and those alarmingly good olives from a plastic tub, sitting by the pool as the light went golden and soft. The kids splashed about until their lips went blue, refusing to admit they were cold. My wife opened a bottle of local wine that cost about four euros and tasted like sunshine. I kept thinking about my key code fiasco and smiling despite myself. There's something humbling about being rubbish at basic tasks on holiday. It sets a certain tone. You can't take yourself too seriously when you've just tried to burgle a stranger's home with a Tesco carrier bag full of flip-flops.

What struck me most about that first day was the slowness of it all. No rushing to attractions, no ticking boxes. Just the pleasure of figuring out which light switch did what, of discovering the villa had a barbecue we'd completely failed to notice, of watching geckos dart across the patio walls as the temperature finally dropped. The children made friends with a neighbourhood cat who clearly had a sophisticated racket going with multiple households. We let them stay up too late because the sky was still light and nobody could be bothered to argue.

I think that's the real magic of a cottage-style break, isn't it? The holiday becomes about the place itself rather than what you're supposedly doing there. By the time we finally turned in, slightly sun-drunk and full of cheap wine, I'd already forgotten the stress of the journey and the embarrassment of my directional failings. Almost forgotten, anyway. My wife definitely mentioned it again at breakfast.