I'd barely stepped off the plane at Tenerife South when I realised my suitcase was still circling somewhere in Gatwick's baggage system. There I stood in thirty-degree heat, wearing jeans and a jumper that now felt like a portable sauna, clutching a carrier bag with nothing but a half-eaten packet of wine gums and my passport. The taxi driver to Abades gave me one of those looks that said he'd seen it all before, which somehow made it worse.

The journey from the airport only takes about twenty minutes, winding through volcanic landscapes that look like someone forgot to paint them. My driver, Miguel, tried to cheer me up by pointing out various bits of scrubland, though I suspect my bright red face and visible sweat patches distracted from the scenery. We passed through San Isidro, all low-rise houses and locals going about their business, before dropping down towards the coast. The first glimpse of the sea through Abades did something to my mood, I'll admit. That particular shade of Atlantic blue has a way of making lost luggage feel like tomorrow's problem.

The property itself sits in a quiet residential corner of the village, the sort of place where British tourists haven't entirely taken over. I found it down a narrow lane, white walls gleaming in the afternoon sun, with a small terrace out front that already had me picturing morning coffee. The key was exactly where the booking said it would be, which felt like a small miracle given my track record. I fumbled with the lock, still in my ridiculous jumper, and practically fell through the door in a tangle of limbs and embarrassment.

Inside, it was exactly the sort of unpretentious, comfortable space you want after a day of travel mishaps. Tiled floors that would stay cool underfoot, a compact kitchen that smelled faintly of the previous guests' cooking, and a living area with sofas that had that lived-in quality of somewhere actually used rather than staged for photographs. I immediately opened every window to let the coastal breeze through, then remembered I had no change of clothes and no toothbrush.

My first expedition was to the local supermarket, a ten-minute wander down towards the village centre. I must have looked a sight, still in winter layers, buying the most random collection of items: a toothbrush, three t-shirts from a rack near the till, some cheese, and a bottle of local wine that cost less than a London coffee. The woman at the checkout didn't bat an eyelid. Either Abades gets its fair share of dishevelled tourists, or she's simply unflappable.

Back at the property, I sat on that terrace as the sun began to drop, wearing my new four-euro t-shirt and drinking wine from a water glass. The village settled into evening around me. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. A scooter puttered past. The temperature finally dropped to something approaching comfortable, and I realised I'd stopped thinking about my suitcase entirely.

There's something about these simple, self-contained places that strips away the performance of holiday-making. No hotel lobby to navigate, no buffet timings to consider, just a small kitchen, a terrace, and the slow rhythm of a village that isn't trying to impress anyone. I watched the sky turn pink over the sea and felt the particular relief of having arrived somewhere that asks nothing of you except presence.

My luggage turned up two days later, by which point I'd grown rather attached to my cheap t-shirts and the routine of morning walks to the bakery, of afternoon swims at the local beach where the volcanic sand gets everywhere, of evenings with that same cheap wine and no particular plan. Some mishaps, it turns out, force you into a better version of a holiday than the one you'd planned.