I should have known the holiday gods were having a laugh when my suitcase wheel fell off at Gatwick. Not in the terminal, mind you, but halfway down the travelator, sending me into a sort of unplanned curtsey while clutching my boarding pass between my teeth. By the time I landed in Tenerife four hours later, I was travelling with what I can only describe as a wonky trolley and a bruised sense of dignity.

The drive from the airport took us up through winding roads that grew greener and more dramatic with every mile. My partner kept saying "look at that view" every thirty seconds, which I appreciated in theory, though my stomach was still recovering from the budget airline coffee and the sheer indignity of my luggage situation. We climbed past banana plantations and little villages clinging to hillsides, the sort of scenery that makes you forget you have been wearing the same socks for twelve hours.

Then we rounded a corner and there it was. Buenavista Tenerife sits perched above the north coast like someone planned it specifically to make arriving guests gasp. The complex of white buildings with terracotta roofs tumbles down toward the Atlantic in that satisfying way Spanish architecture manages, all clean lines and sun-bleached confidence. I stood there with my broken suitcase and my creased trousers and felt, for the first time that day, like the journey might actually have been worth it.

Our apartment was on the first floor, which meant hauling the crippled case up outdoor stairs that seemed charmingly rustic until you were actually climbing them. A friendly neighbour appeared from nowhere to help, speaking rapid Spanish that I answered with enthusiastic but meaningless noises. He got the message anyway, grabbing the heavier end with the kind of practised ease that suggested he had rescued many hapless British tourists before.

The door opened and the smell hit me first. That particular clean, warm scent of a holiday let that has been properly aired, mixed with something faintly floral from the gardens below. The living space was simple and bright, white walls and tiled floors that made sense in this climate. But it was the balcony that stopped me properly. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors framed a view of the ocean that looked almost staged, too perfectly blue and endless to be real. I stepped out and immediately felt foolish for all my airport grumbling.

The kitchen was compact but properly equipped, not one of those holiday kitchens where you open a drawer to find a single bent fork and a can opener from 1987. Someone had left a small bowl of local fruit on the counter, which struck me as a genuinely thoughtful touch rather than the performative hospitality you sometimes encounter. I ate a banana that tasted like bananas actually should, standing at the open door with the warm air moving through.

By late afternoon I had unpacked my crooked case, discovered the pool area with its immaculate gardens, and located the nearest small shop for emergency supplies. The woman running it spoke no English and I speak barely any Spanish, yet we conducted a successful transaction involving wine, bread, and some mysterious local cheese through the universal language of pointing and smiling. I returned triumphant, slightly sunburned already, and entirely ready to stop being the person who let a suitcase wheel ruin his mood.

That evening we sat on the balcony with our questionable cheese and entirely acceptable wine, watching the light change over the water. The north coast of Tenerife does something magical at dusk, the sort of colours that make amateur photographers of us all. I thought about my travelator tumble and laughed properly for the first time. Some arrivals are smooth and some test you slightly, and perhaps the second sort make the first glass of wine taste better and the first view look sweeter. I was here, wheel or no wheel, and Buenavista had already started to feel like the kind of place where the small disasters become the stories you tell later with genuine affection.