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

Our journey to Portman had already involved a wrong turn at Cartagena that added forty minutes of increasingly narrow Spanish roads, a heated debate about whether the sat nav was possessed or merely incompetent, and my partner Sarah's realisation that she had packed three phone chargers but no actual phone. The final indignity came as we crested the hill above the village and spotted what I confidently announced was our holiday home, only to discover it was a smallholding inhabited by a single goat who stared at us with the weary contempt of someone who had seen this mistake many times before.

"ECC868," Sarah muttered, checking her printed confirmation for the seventh time. "Not goat."

The actual property sat two hundred yards further down, a whitewashed townhouse with terracotta trim and a balcony that promised mountain views. By then I had already committed to the goat encounter, waving cheerfully as if we had simply stopped for a chat, which the goat ignored entirely.

We were rescued from further humiliation by Pilar, the keyholder, who emerged from next door with the relaxed pace of someone operating on an entirely different concept of urgency. She was seventyish, dressed in a housecoat that had seen decades of faithful service, and carrying a small dog named Pepe who appeared to be asleep standing up.

"You are the English," she declared, not as question but fact. "The last ones forgot how to open the shutters and slept three days in darkness." She found this hilarious. We found it concerning.

Pilar's tour of the property was comprehensive in the extreme. Every cupboard opened to reveal its contents, every light switch demonstrated multiple times, the washing machine explained with the gravity of a safety briefing. Pepe woke briefly to bark at the fridge, then resumed his slumber. Through it all, Pilar maintained a running commentary on village life that required no prompting whatsoever.

"The bar opens at eight but Manolo will serve you at seven-thirty if you knock and look thirsty. The bakery has good bread Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, but Thursday is best because Concha makes it and she has the better oven. Do not buy fish from the van on Fridays. I will not say why but you will understand if you ignore me."

She paused at the balcony door, suddenly serious. "You have come for quiet. This is good. Portman is quiet now. Before, not quiet." She gestured vaguely toward the mountains, where abandoned mining infrastructure dotted the slopes like rusted sculptures. "My grandfather worked there. My father too. Now they are tourist things. Strange world."

This brief shadow passed, and she was immediately instructing us on the proper technique for the outdoor shower, which involved a complicated sequence of taps and what she called "the prayer position" to avoid initial cold water shock. Pepe chose this moment to fully wake and attempt to mate with my leg, an advance Pilar found as amusing as the shutter incident.

"Pepe likes you. This is rare. He bit the German in March."

We were still processing this when she produced a Tupperware container of homemade migas, explaining that we would need sustenance after our journey and that the village shop closed for siesta at two precisely, not two-ish as the English seemed to believe. The migas were still warm, fragrant with garlic and paprika, and I felt an unexpected lump in my throat at this unasked-for kindness from a stranger who had already given us more of her afternoon than any transaction required.

As Pilar finally departed, pausing three times for additional warnings and recommendations, Sarah and I stood on that balcony with our unexpected meal and watched the goat wander past below, still radiating disapproval. The mountains stretched before us in layers of ochre and green, the silence broken only by distant dogs and what I later learned was Pepe's habitual afternoon serenade from next door.

I thought about Pilar's grandfather, about the mines that built and hollowed this place, about the generosity of people who owe you nothing. I thought about how I had nearly introduced myself to livestock. The migas were delicious. The shower required actual prayer. And I already suspected that Portman would be nothing like the holiday I had planned, and considerably better for it.