I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise absolutely no one that I managed to get us lost before we even reached Valencia. There we were, trundling down what I insisted was a shortcut, my wife scrolling frantically on her phone while the kids debated whether we were now in Portugal. The sat nav had given up on us entirely. I spotted a tiny petrol station where an elderly chap was watering a single pot plant with the dedication of a man tending a prize rose. He took one look at my map, laughed for a solid thirty seconds, and sent us back the way we had come. We arrived at the Alicante holiday home nearly an hour later than planned, dusty, slightly bickering, and absolutely desperate for a cup of tea.

The property sits in a quiet spot not far from the coast, and the moment I wrestled our cases out of the boot, I felt that lovely shift that happens when a holiday actually begins. The house has that proper cottage feel to it, all terracotta tiles and white walls, with a private pool glimmering at the back like it had been waiting especially for us. My youngest shot straight through the living room, out the patio doors, and was perched on the pool edge with his toes in before I had even found the kettle. Priorities, I suppose.

The kitchen had everything we needed for proper self-catering, which for our family is half the point of this sort of break. We are not the sort who dress up for hotel dinners. Give us a bag of local oranges, some decent bread from the mercado, and the freedom to eat at odd hours because someone got sunburned and needed a nap. The open-plan living space meant I could potter about making sandwiches while still being part of whatever chaotic card game had started at the table. My daughter declared the sofa her territory immediately, claiming it was the exact right firmness for reading. She has strong opinions on these matters.

That first evening, we did not venture far. There is something delicious about a cottage holiday where the outside world can wait. We grilled some fish I bought from a little shop in the nearby village, opened wine that cost embarrassingly little, and ate by the pool as the light went soft and golden. The kids splashed about until their fingertips went wrinkly. I sat there with my feet up, still slightly mortified about my navigational disaster, and decided that getting lost had perhaps been worth it for the story. My wife caught my eye and raised her glass with that particular expression that means she will be mentioning the petrol station man at Christmas for years to come.

What struck me most was how quickly we settled into a slower rhythm. No rushing for breakfast sittings, no fighting through crowds to bag a pool lounger. Just the simple pleasure of having our own space, our own timetable, our own slightly wonky attempts at Spanish cooking. The property feels genuinely private, not overlooked, which matters when you want to lounge about looking your absolute worst without apologising to strangers.

We did wander down to the local beach the next morning, a straightforward stroll that even I could not mangle. The Mediterranean was that impossible blue you forget exists until you see it again. But honestly? That first lazy evening by our own pool, full of cheap wine and slightly burnt fish, already felt like the heart of the holiday. Some people chase grand experiences. I am increasingly convinced that a cottage break, done properly, is about collecting small, perfect moments and not minding when things go a bit wrong along the way.