I have never been so pleased to see a set of keys in a plastic box in all my life. Eight hours after leaving Luton in the grey drizzle, there they were, hanging on a hook outside a tiny office in Orihuela, glinting in actual Spanish sunshine like the holy grail of holiday lettings.

The journey had been one of those classic British travel sagas. Up at four, crammed into a budget airline seat designed for a child, then a hire car that smelled faintly of wet dog and optimism. My partner Dave had insisted on navigating, which meant twenty minutes of tense circling roundabouts while he argued with the sat nav in what he imagined was authoritative Spanish. "Derecha," he would boom, as if volume alone could override the fact we were clearly going left.

The mishap came at a petrol station somewhere past Alicante. Nature called, I grabbed my bag, and somewhere between the loo and the crisps display I managed to drop my phone down a drain. Not a dramatic storm drain, just one of those modest gratings that suddenly becomes a portal to another dimension. There it sat, three feet down, displaying a text from my mother about remembering suncream, glowing up at me like a sarcastic little rectangle of regret. A very kind attendant produced a wire coat hanger, and after some undignified fishing that drew a small crowd, I retrieved it minus all dignity and one working charging port.

By the time we found the villa, I was ready to weep into my last packet of airport wine gums. But then we turned up a dusty track between lemon groves, and there it was: a proper whitewashed Spanish house with terracotta pots and a terrace that seemed to float above the valley. The keys actually worked, which felt like a minor miracle given my luck so far.

I will not pretend I did anything sophisticated in those first hours. I stood on that terrace with a warm Coke from the fridge, because we had not yet found the shops, and I just looked. The mountains rose up hazy and purple in the distance. A neighbour's dog barked somewhere, the kind of lazy afternoon bark that suggests even the animals are on siesta time. Somewhere below, a cockerel gave a half-hearted crow, as if he too had just arrived and was not quite sure of the schedule.

The pool was smaller than it looked in photos, which is the universal law of holiday rentals, but the water was that particular Mediterranean blue that makes you forgive absolutely everything. I dipped a toe, then a foot, then found myself sitting on the edge with my trousers rolled up like a pensioner at Blackpool, grinning like an idiot.

Dave emerged from his inspection of the barbecue with the satisfied air of a man who has found charcoal and a set of tongs. "We could cook tonight," he announced, as if this were a revelation rather than the entire point of a self-catering villa. I did not argue. There was something about the light, the warmth on my shoulders, the distant sound of Spanish radio from another terrace, that made everything feel gently, wonderfully possible again.

That phone still does not charge properly. I have it sitting in rice like a bizarre paella ingredient, hoping for the best. But sat there with warm Coke and dusty feet, watching Dave attempt to decipher the Spanish on a bottle of olive oil, I thought: this is exactly where I need to be. Exhausted, slightly broken, and absolutely nowhere near ready for whatever tomorrow brings.