I'd never driven to Murcia before, and by the time we finally spotted the sign for Sucina, I'd already convinced myself we'd somehow ended up in Portugal. Twelve hours from the Portsmouth ferry, two wrong turns around Alicante, and one spectacular argument about whether the sat nav was "being dramatic" or genuinely trying to send us through a farmer's field. Spoiler: it was a bit of both.

The mishap came at the worst possible moment. We'd stopped for petrol somewhere near Torrevieja, and I emerged from the shop triumphant with two coffees and a bag of questionable ham-flavoured crisps, only to discover I'd locked the keys in the boot. There we stood, in thirty-degree heat, me frantically pressing the key fob against the glass like that might somehow encourage the car to reconsider its life choices. My partner just leaned against the pump, arms crossed, wearing that particular expression of British restraint that says "I will absolutely bring this up at Christmas dinner for the next fifteen years." Forty quid and one very sheepish call to the AA later, we were moving again, though my dignity remained firmly in that petrol station car park.

By the time we pulled into New Sierra Golf, the sun had dropped to that golden hour that makes everything look slightly magical, or perhaps I was just delirious from the journey. The estate sits just on the edge of Sucina proper, all low-rise townhouses and neat gardens, with the Sierra de Carrascoy mountains rising behind like a painted backdrop. I'd worried it might feel a bit too polished, too resort-like, but there's something genuinely peaceful about the place. The golf course winds through the development in that casual Mediterranean way, not shouting about itself, just there if you fancy it.

Our townhouse was one of the corner properties, and stepping inside felt like finally exhaling after holding your breath all day. Cool tiles underfoot, that particular smell of clean linen and somewhere-in-the-distance jasmine, and sliding doors that opened onto a terrace just big enough for a couple of loungers and a small pool that caught the last of the sunlight. I stood there with my bag still on my shoulder, suddenly aware that I'd been carrying tension in my jaw for approximately six hours. My partner had already found the fridge and was making the sort of satisfied noise that only a cold beer after a long drive can produce.

We didn't venture far that first evening, just wandered down to the little commercial area near the entrance, where a handful of bars and restaurants were starting to fill with that relaxed Spanish energy. Nothing flashy, just locals and a few other holidaymakers, kids still in swimming costumes chasing each other between tables. We ate patatas bravas that were actually spicy, which I mention only because I've been burned, metaphorically and almost literally, by too many disappointing British interpretations. The waiter didn't flinch when I ordered in my GCSE Spanish, which I choose to interpret as generosity rather than pity.

Walking back as darkness settled, the mountains had faded to silhouettes and the estate had that lovely hush that warm evenings bring. Somewhere a dog barked, then stopped. I thought about the locked keys, the wrong turns, the crisps I'd abandoned in my panic, and I laughed properly for the first time that day. There's something about arrival, isn't there? The particular sweetness of a journey ended, of unfamiliar sheets and the promise of unscheduled days stretching ahead. I sat on that terrace until my partner called me inside, watching stars appear in a sky that felt bigger than the one we have at home, already forgiving myself for being the sort of person who locks keys in boots, already wondering if I might, against all previous evidence, learn to play golf.