I have never been so happy to see a village in my life, and that includes the time I got lost in the Lake District and stumbled upon a pub that still had the football on. Orba, you absolute legend.

The journey from Gatwick had been one of those classic British holiday specials: up at four in the morning, a flight that felt like it was being powered by a rubber band, and then the hire car. Oh, the hire car. I had booked what I thought was a sensible compact number, but the chap at Valencia Airport clearly took one look at my sleep-deprived face and thought, "He needs a challenge." He handed me the keys to something roughly the size of a small tank, with sat-nav settings that appeared to be in Klingon.

The mishap came about forty minutes in. I had stopped at a service station for a coffee that tasted like burnt ambition, and in my caffeine-deprived state, I managed to lock the keys in the boot. There I stood, in thirty-degree heat, arguing with a Spanish breakdown service on a phone with three percent battery, gesticulating at a car that was silently judging me. A lovely local man with a coat hanger and the patience of a saint eventually saved me. I gave him the only English thing I had: a packet of Werther's Originals from my pocket. He looked confused but accepted them with grace.

By the time I wound my way up through the orange groves towards Orba, I was frayed in that particular way that makes everything either hilarious or devastating. The road narrowed and climbed, and suddenly there were mountains everywhere, proper dramatic ones, the sort that make you feel like you have accidentally driven into a postcard. Then the village appeared, all white houses and terracotta roofs clinging to the hillside, and I felt something in my chest loosen.

The property sat on the edge of things, which suited me perfectly. A finca-style place with its own pool and enough terrace to host a small wedding, though I was travelling alone and the only guest I had was my own sunburn. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a man who had been wearing the same trousers for fourteen hours and stepped out onto that terrace.

That first evening, I did absolutely nothing. This is worth mentioning because I am normally one of those tragic people who plans every hour. But I sat there with a beer from the village shop, watching the light change over the valley, and the orange trees below turning gold, then pink, then that particular deep blue that makes you wonder why you ever bother with television. Somewhere a dog barked. A scooter puttered through the village. My shoulders dropped about six inches.

The pool was freezing, which I discovered by falling in rather than entering with dignity. I surfaced gasping and laughing at myself, which felt like the first honest noise I had made in weeks. There is something about being somewhere unfamiliar, with no one watching, that lets you be a bit ridiculous.

I walked down to Orba proper the next morning, still slightly damp and smelling of chlorine. The village is small, unhurried, the sort of place where old men gather in the square with their coffees and their opinions. I bought bread and tomatoes and cheese, enough to pretend I was going to cook properly, though I mostly ate them standing at the kitchen counter in my swimming shorts.

That first impression, that slow unfurling of tension, has stayed with me. I came looking for sunshine and a break from emails, but I found something quieter: the particular pleasure of being slightly useless in a beautiful place, of letting a village and a terrace and a freezing pool remind me that not everything needs to be achieved.