I have never been brilliant at packing for a holiday, but my attempt at Sardinia this June reached new heights of incompetence. There I was, bouncing along in a hire car from Olbia airport, smug as you like, until I opened my suitcase in our Porto Rotondo apartment and discovered I had packed twelve pairs of socks and not a single pair of walking shoes. Just flip-flops. Three identical pairs of flip-flops, in fact, because apparently I thought I was starring in some sort of beach-themed reality show. My partner looked at me, looked at the socks, and said nothing. That silence said everything.

The drive from Olbia had been gorgeous enough to forgive my footwear disaster. The road curls through cork oak forests and past those low stone walls that seem to hold the hills together. Porto Rotondo itself appeared suddenly, all white buildings and terracotta roofs tumbling down toward the sea like someone had tipped a box of sugar cubes down a slope. Our apartment sat on a hillside with a terrace that looked straight across to the Marinella Gulf, and I spent a good ten minutes just leaning on the railing, watching boats putter about like determined water beetles.

I had grand plans, you see. I had researched coastal walks with the intensity of someone planning a military campaign. The Sentiero della Costa Smeralda, little paths threading between granite boulders and maquis scrub, the sort of walking that makes you feel properly alive and slightly smug on social media. I had imagined myself striding along headlands at dawn, perhaps spotting a mouflon or whatever wild sheep Sardinia offers. Instead I stood there in flip-flops, contemplating my idiocy while the June sun already pressed down with the weight of a warm blanket.

The weather, I should explain, had turned unseasonably hot. Not just pleasant Mediterranean warmth, but that heavy, insistent heat that makes the air shimmer and turns paved surfaces into something approaching a frying pan. The locals moved slowly, sensibly, carrying bottles of water and seeking shade with the wisdom of experience. I, in my flip-flops, was an idiot twice over.

We adapted, as you must. The first morning we attempted a gentle stroll toward Punta Volpe, the little headland that juts out near the marina. I use "stroll" loosely. The path was perhaps half a mile of uneven granite, and my footwear choice became rapidly apparent. Every step required the concentration of a tightrope walker. My toes gripped the rubber straps with desperate intensity. I developed what I can only describe as a flip-flop gait, a sort of mincing shuffle that my partner found hilarious until she tried it herself in solidarity.

We reached a small cove, more rock pool than beach, and collapsed onto sun-warmed stone like shipwreck survivors. The water was absurdly clear, that particular Sardinian turquoise that makes you suspect some sort of filter has been applied to reality. I floated there, toes safely off the ground, and considered my life choices.

The heat built each day. By mid-afternoon the temperature sat stubbornly in the mid-thirties, and even the idea of walking became faintly ridiculous. We shifted to early mornings and late evenings, those golden hours when the light slants sideways and the granite glows pink. I found I could manage short stretches of the coastal path in my ridiculous shoes if I picked my route carefully, sticking to the smoother sections near Ira Beach where the granite has been worn almost polished by generations of feet.

There is something humbling about being defeated by your own incompetence in a beautiful place. I had wanted to be the sort of person who strides confidently along wild coastlines. Instead I became someone who studies the texture of granite before committing to each step, who plans routes based on surface smoothness rather than scenic drama. I noticed things I might have missed at marching pace: the way the strawberry trees grow twisted from the constant wind, the tiny flowers of the cistus bush that close tight against the afternoon heat, the particular smell of the maquis when you brush against it, all rosemary and warm resin.

On our fourth morning, the wind shifted and brought cooler air from the north. I woke before dawn and padded out to the terrace in my flip-flops, because what else did I own, and watched the sky lighten over the water. The temperature was perfect, almost cool, and for two hours I walked the paths near Punta Nuraghe, moving carefully but steadily, finding my rhythm at last. The heat returned by ten, driving me back to shade and cold water, but those two hours felt earned in a way that easy achievement never quite does.

I bought proper walking shoes in Olbia on our final day, naturally. They sit in my cupboard now, barely worn, a monument to lessons learned too late. But I find I do not regret the flip-flop weeks entirely. There is a particular quality to moving slowly through a landscape, to being forced into deliberation by your own foolishness, that reveals something worth seeing. I arrived in Porto Rotondo wanting to conquer coastlines. I left having shuffled through them instead, slightly sunburned, thoroughly humbled, and surprisingly content.