I have never been brilliant with directions, so it was hardly a surprise that I managed to miss the turning for Vinaroz not once but twice, each time ending up in what I can only describe as an industrial estate full of very cross-looking lorries. The third attempt involved a dramatic U-turn that earned me a proper blast of the horn from a chap on a scooter, who looked so offended I half expected him to follow me to the property just to tell me off in person.

But then, round the corner it was: a modest little holiday home with terracotta roof tiles and shutters that had clearly seen a few Spanish summers. I had booked a week in late November, partly because the flights were laughably cheap and partly because I fancied escaping the relentless British drizzle for something a bit more Mediterranean. What I had not fully considered was that Valencia in late autumn is not the Valencia of beach brochures and sangria fountains. It is something quieter, stranger, and in many ways far more interesting.

The first thing that struck me was the light. That particular golden, sideways light you get when the sun sits lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the patio until they look like they belong in a painting. The property had a small terrace with a few pots of geraniums that someone had clearly been tending through the cooler months, their red blooms looking almost defiant against the pale November sky. I stood there with my suitcase still unopened, just absorbing the warmth on my face, already grateful I had not packed the heavy jumper I had nearly brought "just in case."

The seasonal timing shaped everything about that first afternoon. The swimming pool, which I imagine heaves with children in August, sat there covered and slightly forlorn, a few dried leaves skittering across its tarpaulin whenever the breeze picked up. Rather than feeling disappointing, it felt peaceful, like the place was catching its breath after a hectic summer. I made myself a cup of tea - old habits - and sat outside without a coat, which felt positively rebellious for someone used to November meaning perpetual darkness and the heating bill from hell.

Walking down to the local shops later, I passed orange groves heavy with fruit, the trees sagging under the weight of unharvested citrus. The pavement was sticky in places where fallen oranges had been trodden into pulp, and the air carried that sharp, clean smell of citrus oil. A local woman was collecting windfalls into a basket and nodded at me with what I chose to interpret as approval of my excellent seasonal timing. I bought bread and cheese from a small supermarket where the owner seemed genuinely surprised to see a tourist, then wandered back as the light began to fade around half past five.

That early dusk was perhaps the biggest adjustment. The temperature stayed mild, almost warm, but the days felt compressed, urgent somehow. You had to squeeze your outdoor time into fewer hours, make the most of that precious afternoon glow. I found myself planning tomorrow around it, already thinking about an early start to catch the morning light on the terrace, perhaps a walk before lunch, definitely another evening watching the sky turn that particular Valencia pink-orange that seems to last longer than sunset has any right to.

Sitting on that terrace with my bread and cheese, watching the last light catch the terracotta roofs, I felt that rare holiday sensation of having arrived somewhere at exactly the right moment, even if my journey there had been spectacularly incompetent.