So there we were, somewhere over the Pyrenees, when my youngest announced he'd packed his swimming goggles but absolutely no trousers. Just goggles. Twelve pairs, if we're counting the ones he'd shoved into my wife's washbag too. Classic holiday prep from a seven-year-old who'd apparently confused "beach essentials" with "beach only-entials."

The drive from Alicante Airport to Orihuela Costa took about forty minutes, which my mother-in-law spent explaining how she'd once holidayed near Benidorm in 1987 and nothing had changed since. I didn't have the heart to tell her that GPS alone suggested otherwise. We rolled up to our Novasol property just as the afternoon sun hit that golden, Instagram-filter stage, and I immediately forgot about the trouser situation. The place had that proper cottage-holiday feel - whitewashed walls, little terrace with terracotta pots, the sort of setup where you half expect to find a friendly gecko in the bathroom.

First impressions? The pool was smaller than the website photos suggested, but somehow better for it. No Olympic aspirations here, just enough turquoise water for a cooling dip between sun lounger sessions. My wife raised an eyebrow at the outdoor kitchen area - "we're definitely using that for paella night" - while I mentally calculated how many San Miguels I could reasonably fit in the fridge.

The kids vanished into their shared bedroom, which they'd already renamed "the headquarters," and I caught myself doing that thing where you open every cupboard and drawer just because it's not your house. Found a deck of Spanish playing cards, a slightly concerning number of coat hangers, and a barbecue that looked like it had seen some action. Proper lived-in feel, not sterile hotel vibes.

That evening we walked to the nearest strip of restaurants, maybe ten minutes at the pace of a child who's spotted a cat. The smell of garlic prawns hit us before the menus did. We ate too much, drank wine that cost less than a London pint, and watched my youngest attempt to charm a stray with his emergency packet of ham from the villa fridge. The cat was unimpressed. The rest of us were fairly chuffed.

Back at the cottage, sitting on that terrace with the last of the wine, I had one of those moments. You know the ones. Where you realise you've been chasing complicated holidays when actually this - pool, paella plans, a slightly broken sun lounger you need to wedge with a book - this is the good stuff. My wife caught me looking sentimental and threatened to film it for blackmail purposes.

The trousers arrived via a frantic WhatsApp to my brother, who was flying out the following week. Until then, my son rocked shorts like a Mediterranean local and frankly looked happier for it. Some mishaps sort themselves out if you just add enough sunshine and surrender completely.

The real luxury, I'm learning, isn't infinity pools or concierge service. It's having nowhere particular to be, a fridge full of chorizo, and children who've forgotten their tablets exist. That first evening set the tone completely. Slow mornings, late lunches, the occasional gecko sighting. Proper cottage-holiday magic, the kind that doesn't photograph brilliantly but sticks with you anyway.

I did eventually locate one pair of emergency trousers in the hire car boot. My son wore them once, declared them "too hot," and returned to shorts permanently. We left them behind for the next family, along with the Spanish playing cards and whatever gecko currently claimed the shower. Paying it forward, holiday style.