I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I managed to leave my walking boots on the drive at home. There I was, three hours into the journey to Emilia Romagna, rummaging through the boot like a woman possessed, only to find one very lonely trainer and a pair of flip-flops I'd bought in 2019. My other half just sat there in the passenger seat, slowly shaking his head, already mentally preparing himself for a week of me moaning about blisters.

Still, we pressed on. The drive down through Italy had been gorgeous in that hazy, sun-drenched way that makes you forget you've been in a car since dawn. By the time we pulled into Lido delle Nazioni, I was practically vibrating with the need to stretch my legs and sniff the sea air. The place itself looked exactly as I'd hoped - low-rise, a bit retro, all pine trees and sandy paths that screamed coastal holiday. Our apartment was in one of those cheerful complexes that Italians do so well, all terracotta and balconies with wobbly chairs that you know have seen decades of morning espressos.

I shoved my feet into the dubious flip-flops and declared we were doing a recce walk immediately. The man behind the check-in desk had mentioned a coastal path heading north, something about the pine forest running parallel to the beach. Sounded idyllic. We set off with grand intentions, me waddling slightly as the plastic thong dug into that bit between your toes that never quite toughens up.

The path started beautifully. Dappled sunlight through maritime pines, that particular Mediterranean smell of hot resin and salt, the sea visible through gaps in the trees. I was already composing my smug social media post about the simple pleasures of walking holidays. Then the path turned. Or rather, it didn't turn - it just carried on straight through what I can only describe as a sand dune's angrier cousin. My flip-flops were not coping. Each step became a small battle against physics and poor footwear choices. I developed a strange hobbling technique that my other half found absolutely hilarious until his own cheap canvas shoes started filling with sand.

We emerged onto the beach proper looking like we'd survived something, which I suppose we had. The sea was that impossible turquoise that makes you forgive everything, and we flopped down at one of the stabilimenti for a restorative lemonade. That's when I noticed the weather doing something odd. Clouds had appeared from nowhere, stacking up in that theatrical way they do near coastlines. Within twenty minutes, the temperature had dropped noticeably and a wind picked up that carried actual grit.

Our planned long coastal hike was clearly not happening. The beach emptied with comical speed, Italians being far too sensible to linger when the weather turns. We sheltered under the stabilimento's awning with a few other refugees, watching the sky perform. It never properly stormed, just glowered and spat a bit, but the temperature had shifted from summer to something almost autumnal.

I sat there with sandy feet and a growing sense of the ridiculous. Here I was, no proper shoes, weather doing its own thing, and somehow still happier than I'd been in months. There's something about holidays that strips away your ability to control things, and maybe that's the point. I'd wanted a week of structured walking, calorie-counting, sensible behaviour. Instead I got a forced lesson in going with whatever the day throws at you.

The clouds passed eventually, as they do. We walked back the short way, through the streets behind the beach, and I spotted a shop selling cheap canvas shoes. Bought a pair that very minute, bright blue with slightly questionable arch support. They saw me through the rest of the week admirably. We did manage some walking in the end - gentler strolls, more stopping, more noticing. The pine forests when the sun returned were glorious, all shifting light and sudden clearings where you could see the lagoon. We walked to the little harbour area one morning and watched fishermen mending nets with that unhurried expertise that makes you want to slow your own pulse down.

The weather stayed changeable, never quite settling into the reliable heat I'd expected. Each morning became a negotiation with the sky, a reading of wind direction and cloud formations that I started to genuinely enjoy. Some days we walked early before the heat built, others we waited until evening when the light went golden and the pines turned black against the sky. I stopped trying to plan and started just looking, which sounds like something off a motivational poster but actually felt like a small personal revolution.

My walking boots are still on that drive at home, presumably growing a nice patch of moss by now. I should probably fetch them in. But there's a part of me that thinks the flip-flop disaster was exactly what that holiday needed. Sometimes you have to be completely unprepared to actually pay attention to where you are.