I have never been brilliant at reading maps, which is how I ended up driving our hire car down what I can only describe as a goat track above Cefalu, convinced I had found a shortcut to our holiday property. The sat nav had given up on me some miles back, and my partner sat in silence with that particular expression of someone who has seen this film before. We were meant to be arriving at a lovely place near the old town, with a terrace and views of the Tyrrhenian Sea, but instead I had delivered us to a bewildered shepherd and three extremely unimpressed goats.

Twenty minutes of careful reversing later, we found the proper road and eventually the property itself. I will not pretend my cheeks were not slightly flushed as I handed over the keys and made my first impression on the neighbours, who had gathered to watch the spectacle with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for village fetes.

The place itself, though, made the humiliation worthwhile. A modest but charming flat with shuttered windows and a terrace that looked directly out towards the great rocky lump of La Rocca. I stepped outside with a cold beer from the tiny fridge, still sweating from my navigational triumph, and felt the particular heat of Sicily settle over me like a heavy blanket. It was late May, and I had been warned that the weather could be unpredictable, but this felt properly baking.

My plan had been ambitious. I had packed walking boots, proper socks, even one of those hats with a flap for the neck. I was going to stride along the coast like a minor Victorian explorer, discovering hidden coves and dramatic headlands. The guidebook mentioned a coastal path heading west from Cefalu towards the old tonnara at Mazzaforno, and I had already mentally composed the bracing social media posts.

The morning after arrival, I set off full of purpose. The path began beautifully, threading between low scrub and sudden plunges to shingle beaches. The sea was that impossible blue that makes you slightly angry, because photographs never capture it properly. I walked for perhaps forty minutes, feeling terribly pleased with myself, before noticing that the sun had shifted and the temperature had climbed with it. By the time I reached a small beach where a few locals were already swimming, I was pouring with sweat and my noble expedition had reduced itself to me sitting on a rock, drinking warm water, and questioning several of my life choices.

A friendly chap fishing from the rocks asked if I was alright in broken English. I assured him I was having a wonderful time, which is what one says. He suggested I might try the walk early morning or evening, and perhaps bring more than one bottle of water. I took his advice with the grace of the thoroughly humbled.

For the next few days, the weather became my collaborator rather than my opponent. I rose at six, when the light was still soft and the heat merely pleasant, and walked the coastal paths in the cool hours. The afternoons I spent on the terrace, reading and dozing, or wandering the narrow streets of Cefalu's old town for gelato and shade. One evening I walked up to the cathedral square as the sun dropped behind La Rocca, and the stone glowed pink and gold, and I felt that rare thing of being exactly where I ought to be.

On our final morning, I attempted the longer path towards Sant'Ambrogio, a village perched above the coast. I started early, took three bottles of water, and actually enjoyed myself rather than enduring it. The views back towards Cefalu, with the town cupped between mountain and sea, were worth every sensible precaution.

I returned to the property as the heat began to build, made coffee, and sat on the terrace watching the day unfold. My partner joined me, and we laughed again about my goat track debut. I had arrived expecting to conquer the Sicilian coast through sheer determination, and instead had learned to let the place teach me its rhythms. Some holidays give you what you want; this one, rather better, gave me what I needed.