I thought I'd packed everything for our Andalusia trip until I realised, halfway down the M40 towards Gatwick, that my walking boots were still sitting smugly in the hallway at home. My partner Dave gave me that look, the one that says "we've been together twelve years and you still do this," which only made me laugh harder at the absurdity of planning a walking holiday in the hills above Montefrio with nothing but a pair of knackered canvas trainers I'd bought at a festival in 2019.

The journey itself was straightforward enough, a flight to Malaga then a hire car up through olive country, those endless silver-green trees stretching to every horizon like someone had gone mad with a giant paint roller. We arrived at our villa just after sunset, the key safe sticking slightly, me fumbling in the dark while Dave held his phone torch at an unhelpful angle. The place was properly lovely though, all white walls and terracotta tiles, with a pool that caught the last bit of evening light like a promise.

Morning brought the heat, that heavy Andalusian warmth that wraps round you like a blanket fresh from the radiator. I'd been dreaming of proper hill walks, the kind where you earn your evening tapas, but stepping outside felt like opening an oven door. Dave, ever sensible, suggested we at least attempt the local path up towards the castle ruins above Montefrio. I agreed, still stubbornly pretending my festival trainers were adequate footwear.

We managed perhaps forty minutes before my feet started complaining in ways I didn't know feet could complain. The path was steeper than expected, loose in places, and I found myself doing an awkward sideways shuffle down a particularly gravelly section while Dave walked ahead trying not to smirk. The views were staggering though, Montefrio's famous whitewashed houses tumbling down the hillside below us, the church perched dramatically on its rocky outcrop like something from a film set.

By midday the temperature had climbed past thirty degrees and any romantic notions of lengthy mountain treks had melted faster than the ice in our water bottles. We retreated to the villa, me slightly humbled, Dave graciously not mentioning the boots incident for at least another hour. The pool became our base camp, and we planned alternative adventures from the relative sanity of sun loungers.

The weather forced a proper shift in thinking. We'd imagined ourselves as rugged explorers, but Andalusia in summer has opinions about such things. Instead we took to early morning strolls through Montefrio itself, wandering narrow streets before the heat built, watching the town wake up around us. Evenings became our walking time, when the light turned golden and the temperature dropped to something approaching pleasant. We found a path that looped round the lower olive groves, nothing dramatic, just gentle wandering through that extraordinary landscape, cicadas racketing away in the dry grass.

There was something quietly instructive about it, if I'm honest. I'm usually the person with the itinerary, the mapped routes, the proper gear. Sitting on our terrace one evening, trainers drying after an ill-advised attempt at a stream crossing, I recognised that the holiday had become something better through going slightly wrong. We'd slowed down, noticed more, let the place dictate terms rather than charging at it with my usual determination.

On our last morning we walked up to a viewpoint near the villa, just a twenty-minute amble, watching mist lift from the valley below. My feet were fine. The boots would have been overkill anyway, I told Dave, who made a non-committal noise that translated as "whatever helps you sleep." I think I'll remember that holiday most for the heat that changed everything, and for learning that sometimes the wrong shoes lead you to the right pace.