I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Puente Genil did not disappoint. We had flown into Malaga, collected our hire car with the air conditioning that wheezed like my uncle after Sunday lunch, and set off into the Andalusian interior with the confidence of people who had barely glanced at a map. My partner was in charge of navigation, which meant I was in charge of panic. Somewhere between Antequera and Lucena, we took a wrong turn that led us down a track barely wide enough for a donkey. The sat nav cheerfully announced we were "arriving at destination" while we stared at a field of olive trees and a very unimpressed goat.

Forty minutes of tense reversing and muttered apologies later, we found the proper road and finally pulled up to our holiday home. The keys were in the lockbox as promised, though I managed to drop them down a drain grate while fumbling with the code. My partner's expression suggested divorce was not off the table. A kind neighbour emerged with a broom handle and some string, and within ten minutes we were proper Andalusian problem-solvers. I chose to view this as character building.

Stepping inside for the first time, the cool of the tiled floors hit my sun-baked ankles like a blessing. The house had that particular smell of somewhere properly lived-in but well cared for: lemon cleaner, dried lavender, and the faint promise of someone else's cooking lingering in the curtains. The kitchen opened onto a small courtyard with potted geraniums and a plastic chair that looked like it had hosted a thousand evening beers. I immediately claimed it as my throne.

We had arrived in late May, armed with ambitious plans for coastal hiking along the Costa del Sol. The guidebook had promised dramatic cliff paths near Nerja, breezy promenades in Estepona, the whole glorious Mediterranean ramble. The weather, however, had other ideas. Andalusia was in the grip of an early heatwave, the kind that makes sensible people hide indoors and foolish people book walking holidays. By nine each morning, the thermometer sat at thirty-two degrees and climbed with malicious intent.

Our first attempted coastal walk near Torrox lasted precisely forty minutes before we retreated to a beach bar, red-faced and humbled, ordering lemonades with the desperation of desert survivors. The path had been beautiful, all craggy limestone and turquoise glimpses, but the sun had felt personal, vindictive even. I am from Yorkshire. We do not do vindictive sun.

This forced a reconsideration. We began walking at dawn instead, proper early starts that my body protested but my sanity required. The local paths around Puente Genil itself became our unexpected salvation. The river Genil runs through the town, and the riverside walk to the old railway bridge offered shade from plane trees and the gentle company of morning dog walkers. We discovered the olive groves stretching in every direction, their silver-green leaves shimmering in the first light, the soil pale and dusty between the rows. These were not dramatic coastal hikes, but they were ours, adapted to what the weather allowed.

By afternoon, we surrendered completely. The house became our refuge. We read on that plastic throne of mine, napped with fans whirring, ventured out only for cold beers and plates of salmorejo at the local bars. I felt briefly guilty about our abandoned coastal ambitions, then remembered that holidays are meant to be enjoyed rather than endured. The heat had rewritten our plans, and the rewritten version was, frankly, rather lovely.

On our final morning, I walked alone through the olive groves at six-thirty, the sky already light but the air still carrying night's coolness. A farmer on a moped waved without stopping. My shoes were dusty, my water bottle half empty, and I had finally stopped checking the weather app with resentment. Some holidays teach you to chase what you planned; others teach you to walk where you actually are.