I have never been so relieved to see a swimming pool in my entire life. After eighteen hours of travel that involved a delayed flight to Alicante, a hire car with suspicious air conditioning, and a sat nav that seemed personally offended by rural Murcia, I finally pulled up to our cortijo in Pliego. That is when I realised I had packed every single charger known to man except the one for my phone. Classic.

The journey from Alicante had started well enough. I had a coffee, a slightly stale croissant, and that particular optimism that only exists at the beginning of a holiday. Three hours later I was driving through lemon groves muttering to myself while the temperature gauge climbed and my water supply dwindled. The roads around Pliego wind through hills dotted with almond trees and the occasional goat that looks like it owns the place. It is beautiful, no question, but by that point I was too busy arguing with technology to appreciate it properly.

The sat nav gave up entirely about two miles from the property. Just abandoned me with a cheerful "you have reached your destination" while I sat in front of what was definitely someone's garage. I did three loops of the same junction, each time becoming more intimately acquainted with a particular herd of sheep who watched with undisguised judgement. There is something deeply humbling about being outwitted by livestock.

Then I spotted the wooden sign, half hidden by bougainvillea, and turned onto a track that crunched satisfyingly under the wheels. The cortijo sat low against the hillside, whitewashed walls glowing pink in the late afternoon sun. Terracotta pots lined the entrance. A lemon tree heavy with fruit leaned over the parking area like it was trying to welcome me personally. I turned off the engine and just sat there for a moment, listening to absolutely nothing except crickets and my own breathing slowing down.

The key was exactly where the property notes said it would be, which felt like a small miracle given my track record. I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into cool tile floors and that particular hush of thick stone walls. The living room opened onto a covered terrace through arched doorways, and beyond that lay the pool I mentioned, its surface perfectly still and impossibly blue against the dusty greens and browns of the surrounding hills.

I did what any sensible person would do. I dumped my bags in the nearest bedroom without properly looking at it, found the fridge contained a welcome bottle of water, and spent twenty minutes floating on my back watching swallows dart across the sky. The water was warm as a bath, which surprised me until I remembered this was August in southeastern Spain and everything warm here earns its keep.

Later, as the light shifted to gold, I actually explored properly. The kitchen had proper terracotta tiles and a fireplace I immediately imagined using in cooler months. The bedrooms looked out over the valley towards Pliego village, its church tower visible in the distance. I stood on the terrace with a glass of something local and felt that particular holiday sensation of time suddenly becoming elastic.

The phone charger situation still needed solving, obviously. I would deal with that tomorrow, probably with an awkward conversation in my terrible Spanish at some shop in the village. For now, I had crickets and warm air scented with thyme and lemon blossom. I had a pool and a view and silence that felt generous rather than empty.

Funny how a morning of mild travel chaos can dissolve so completely. I think that is why I bother with the journey in the first place.