We knew nothing about her background at that stage . . . not that she was from Dublin, not that she was journalist Brighid McLaughlin's sister and certainly not that she largely ran the hotel herself, doing all of the cooking (she had trained as a chef in the Shelbourne Hotel) and overseeing the day-to-day running. We were later to learn that it was a labour of love.

Despite being under pressure . . . it later materialised that she was cooking a Spanish 'banquet' for guests on this particular night . . . she took us out to the terrace, brought us some much-needed water followed by a delicious jug of Sangria, showed us around the hotel and then to our room.

How do you describe perfection? God knows, it's pretty thin on the ground in the hotel business, but Hotel Salvia was beautiful, with its six guest rooms all individually and lovingly decorated (she had brought lots of bits and pieces of antique furniture and furnishings over from Ireland) and with an attention to detail that was quite extraordinary . . .

a night-light flickering on every stone step as you climbed the three-storey house to bed at night, fresh mint in the water jugs, a flower petal in the butter dish, fresh flowers abundant in the bedrooms and en suite bathrooms, touches of lace, white linen. . . the list was endless. The overall effect was of a romantic, small hotel where nothing was too much trouble.

Siobhan's husband Brian Kearney was back in Dublin on business when we stayed, but Dan, her blonde, tousledhaired son was an ebullient presence, charging around the bouganvillea-filled garden, in and out of the swimming pool, amusing guests and exasperating his young, Majorcan nanny with his cowboy antics as he 'shot' everyone in sight.

A delightful child, not far off his third birthday in July, and clearly adored by his mother.

Meanwhile, upstairs in the drawingroom, open to guests and family alike, my husband and I perused the art on the walls and the myriad family photographs that lined the huge oak sideboard. Two family crests hung on the wall . . .

Kearney side by side with McLaughlin. Another look at the photos and the penny dropped . . . Siobhan was Brighid McLaughlin's sister, Brighid, the Sunday Independent journalist who had suffered so much personal tragedy in the previous couple of years.

Later that evening, returning from a stroll in the square in Soller, we discovered that Brighid, and another sister, Aisling, were both in residence, finishing off dinner on the terrace and chatting away to guests while Siobhan still slaved away in the kitchen, producing one culinary delight after another. We were invited to sample her cooking and, despite having already eaten in the town, we couldn't resist what was put before us. We ate, we sipped wine and we joined in the chat with Siobhan's sisters and the other guests. Later, retiring to bed, we encountered Siobhan, perched on a shelf outside the kitchen sipping water, legs dangling, sleeves still rolled up, exhausted from the heat and from her culinary labours.

It was nearly midnight. We'd first encountered her when we'd arrived at 4.30 in the afternoon. She'd been flat-out for almost eight hours. But she was exhilarated. You got the impression that there was nothing she'd rather be doing and nowhere she'd rather be.

The next morning we rose to yet another sun-splitting-thestones Majorcan morning and enjoyed breakfast in the sunshine while ruminating on the idyllic cliche of it all . . . the swimming pool glistened, the bees buzzed amid the flowers and the scent of oranges from the trees in the garden wafted in our direction. (Soller is famous for its orange groves. ) We'd intended to head off early, straight after my husband had photographed Siobhan for a potential magazine assignment. Suddenly she appeared, resplendent in a silk, summer dress, her hair styled simply and all signs of the previous evening's tiredness banished from her face. Dan muscled in on the photos, his mischievous naughtiness constantly checked by his two aunties while Siobhan smiled indulgently at her only child.

And then, photos over, we all sat in the shade drinking tea and we talked. . . and talked. . .

and talked. The McLaughlin sisters spoke of family, of life and death (Siobhan and Aisling had clearly adored Brighid's husband Michael Shannon, who had died so tragically . . . the Shannon Suite in the hotel was named after him and was the room where he and Brighid always stayed.

She hadn't been back into the room since his death) and their closeness and sense of fun was touching and infectious.

A couple of hours later we dragged ourselves away, leaving the sisters and Dan . . . complete with guns and cowboy hat . . . together on the terrace.

Back in Dublin I bought a DVD of The Alamo and sent it off to Dan. A week or so later I received an email from Siobhan, thanking me profusely and saying that Dan was delighted, especially as it had arrived on his birthday . . . "you'd just want to see him, " she wrote, "all three years of him!"

And I imagined her in her idyllic hotel and I thought how lucky she was.