I'd never really trusted sat navs, and my trip to Rojales only confirmed why. Twelve hours after leaving Gatwick, bleary-eyed and smelling of airport coffee, I found myself down a dirt track somewhere near Alicante, convinced my phone had finally lost the plot entirely. The property was in Valencia, it said. This looked like the set of a spaghetti western. I had, in my infinite wisdom, typed "Rojales" into Google Maps and somehow selected a village of the same name forty miles south of where I actually needed to be. Classic me. Three U-turns and one extremely patient Spanish farmer later, I was back on the AP-7, laughing at my own uselessness while desperately needing a wee.

The actual Rojales I was after sits just inland from the Costa Blanca, technically within Valencia's southern reaches, and pulling through its quiet streets finally felt like arriving somewhere real. No high-rise hotels, no Brits Abroad stereotypes, just low-rise houses and the occasional orange tree heavy with fruit. I spotted the villa before the sat nav even announced it, a neat white bungalow behind a low wall with terracotta pots flanking the gate. Someone had planted bougainvillea that had gone absolutely feral in the sunshine, fuchsia explosions crawling up the side of the building. Already I felt the journey's tension slipping from my shoulders.

The key safe presented my second challenge of the day, mostly because I couldn't read my own handwriting in the booking email. Standing there in thirty-degree heat, punching in variations of what might have been the code, I became briefly convinced I'd have to sleep in the hire car. Then click, the box surrendered, and I was in.

First impressions? That wonderful hush of a place that's been properly shut up against the heat. I pushed open the front door and was hit by that particular Mediterranean smell of warm tile, faint lemon polish, and something flowering just outside. The living room opened onto the terrace through sliding glass doors, and like the complete cliche I am, I went straight for them without unpacking a thing. The pool glimmered turquoise in the afternoon light, completely still, begging for someone to ruin its perfect surface. Beyond the garden wall, I could see palm fronds and the distant suggestion of mountains. Somewhere, a dog barked lazily. I barked back, just to see what would happen. Nothing happened. The dog couldn't be bothered either.

The kitchen surprised me by being properly equipped rather than the usual holiday let tat. Actual sharp knives. A coffee maker that looked like it meant business. I made the worst espresso of my life, grinding the beans too fine because I was too excited to read instructions, and drank it on the terrace anyway, grimacing happily. A gecko appeared on the wall, observed my suffering with one beady eye, and vanished.

By evening, I'd done almost nothing constructive. Unpacked haphazardly. Swum three lazy lengths. Discovered the outdoor shower and used it far longer than necessary, watching the sky turn that particular Valencia pink that makes British sunsets look apologetic. The mishap of the morning already felt like someone else's story, or at least like the necessary price of admission.

Sitting there with my rubbish coffee and my damp hair, I realised how rarely I let myself simply arrive somewhere without immediately planning the next thing. The journey's small disaster had forced me to slow down, to notice the farmer's patient wave, the absurdity of my own panic, the gradual reveal of the proper destination. I hadn't earned the pool or the pink sky or the gecko's indifference, but here they were anyway, waiting for someone who'd finally stopped trying to be somewhere else.

Tomorrow I'd explore properly, find the local mercado, work out where to buy decent bread. Tonight, I just watched the bougainvillea darken against the wall and listened to a neighbour's radio playing something flamenco-ish from three gardens away. The sat nav sat abandoned in the hire car, probably still confused. I wasn't.