I have never been so relieved to see a sat nav give up on me as I was driving into Almunecar. There I was, winding through hills that looked like someone had dropped a giant terracotta blanket over the world, when my phone decided the Costa Tropical did not exist and tried to send me up what I can only describe as a goat's idea of a shortcut. Half an hour of reversing down a single track, waving apologetically at an old man with two dogs who clearly found my panic deeply entertaining, and I finally spotted the sea glinting below. I may have cheered out loud. I was definitely sweating.

The villa sat tucked into a hillside with that particular Andalusian confidence, all white walls and blue trim, bougainvillea doing its best to take over the terrace. My first proper look came after dumping bags and heading straight for the pool, because when you have driven through a personal geography nightmare, you need immediate cold water and probably a beer. The view stopped me mid-sip. The Mediterranean stretched out like someone had ironed it specially, mountains rising behind the town in layers of dusty green and ochre. I had planned to be clever, to unpack methodically, to find the nearest supermarket. Instead I stood there in damp clothes and felt something in my shoulders finally release.

That first evening I walked down into Almunecar proper, taking a path that cut through avocado groves. The smell was extraordinary, that green, slightly peppery scent mixing with jasmine from someone's garden wall. I had intended a quick stroll to find dinner. Two hours later I was still wandering, having discovered that Spanish evening time operates on its own mysterious logic. Restaurants opened when they felt like it. I ate grilled sardines at half past ten, sitting on a plastic chair that wobbled on uneven paving, and decided this was absolutely perfect.

The heat, though. Nobody had warned me properly about the particular weight of Andalusian summer. My carefully researched hiking plans for the first full day dissolved by nine in the morning. I had packed boots, proper socks, a compass I have never once used correctly. I made it perhaps twenty minutes along the coastal path towards Cotobro before accepting that I was essentially melting. The trail was beautiful, carved into cliffs above small coves where the water turned impossible shades of turquoise, but I am English and we are not built for this. I retreated to the villa's pool with the dignity of a defeated but philosophical general.

This became the pattern. Early mornings were for walking, before the sun climbed high enough to feel personal. I found the Paseo del Altillo, a path that threads along the western edge of town, passing Roman fish salting pits that sit there casually, two thousand years old and barely fenced off. The light at that hour is extraordinary, everything soft and golden, fishermen already pulling boats up the shingle beach. By midday I was horizontal somewhere shady with a book and regular applications of factor fifty. The villa's terrace became my command centre for doing very little with great intensity.

One morning I pushed further, walking the full coastal route past La Herradura. The path climbs and drops, giving you views of hidden coves where kayakers paddled about looking smug and athletic. I stopped at a beach bar for horchata, that almond drink that tastes like childhood even when you are firmly middle-aged, and watched a family attempting to construct a sandcastle with engineering ambitions far exceeding their skills. The father kept consulting his phone, presumably for structural guidance. The mother drank tinto de verano and offered moral support.

The weather forced a kind of surrender that I ended up appreciating. I am normally one for packed itineraries, for ticking off sights with efficient brutality. The heat made that impossible, made me slow, made me notice things I would have marched past. The way the town's old quarter folded in on itself, streets barely wide enough for a scooter. The sudden plazas where old men played dominoes with the seriousness of chess grandmasters. A cat asleep in a flowerpot, which I photographed like a tourist, which I absolutely was.

My final morning I rose early enough to walk down to the beach before anyone else arrived. The sand was cool, the water barely rippled. I stood there with coffee from a machine that had taken my money with suspicious eagerness, and watched the sun climb over the eastern hills. Somewhere behind me, my sat nav failure of an arrival already felt like the necessary prelude. You cannot appreciate being found until you have been properly, comically lost.