I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise absolutely no one that I managed to miss the turning for Cabrils not once but three times. The hire car was not impressed, judging by the persistent beep it made every time I mounted a kerb. By the time I finally crawled up the winding lane to the villa, I was half an hour late, thoroughly flustered, and sporting a impressive coffee stain down my linen shirt. Holiday mode: activated.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. After the petrol fumes of the airport and the stale air conditioning of the car, stepping out into that warm, herby breeze felt like someone had opened a jar of dried thyme right under my nose. Rosemary too, perhaps. I stood there like a lemon, just breathing, while a gecko darted across the wall and disappeared into a crack. The place smelled of summer, proper summer, the kind that makes you slightly nervous about how much suncream you packed.

The villa itself sat perched on the hillside with that confident, weathered look that Spanish houses seem to acquire effortlessly. Terracotta pots, whitewashed walls, a terrace that practically begged for a glass of something cold. I dumped my bags with rather more enthusiasm than grace and immediately set about exploring, which mostly meant opening every door and making pleased noises.

I had arrived with grand plans for walking. The Costa Maresme was supposedly laced with coastal paths, and I had packed my most serious walking sandals in anticipation. The first morning, I woke absurdly early thanks to a combination of jet lag and a rooster somewhere in the valley who clearly took his duties very seriously. The sky was already that particular Mediterranean blue that makes British skies look frankly apologetic. I slathered on suncream, filled my water bottle, and set off down the lane with the boundless optimism of someone who has not yet experienced Catalan midday heat.

The path towards the coast started pleasantly enough. Olive groves gave way to pine woods, and I could hear the sea before I could see it, that rhythmic crash that makes you walk faster without quite realising. I passed an old man tending vines who nodded at me with what I chose to interpret as respect for my athletic endeavour, though in retrospect it was probably something closer to amusement.

By ten o'clock, I had reached a viewpoint where the coast unravelled below in a series of rocky coves and shingle beaches. I felt rather pleased with myself. Smug, even. I took a photograph, considered posting it with a caption about morning rituals, and then the sun properly arrived.

I do not know if you have ever experienced the particular intensity of a Catalan August morning, but it is not the gentle warmth of a British summer. It is more like stepping into a hairdryer. Within half an hour, my serious walking sandals had become instruments of torture. My water was suspiciously warm. The path, which had seemed charmingly rugged, now felt actively hostile. I found myself eyeing every patch of shade with the desperation of a lizard on a hot stone.

I had planned to walk all the way to Vilassar de Mar, a solid few hours along the coast. Instead, I made it to a tiny cove just past Premia de Dalt and practically threw myself into the sea. The water was that perfect temperature where it shocks you for approximately three seconds and then becomes the only place you ever want to be. I floated on my back, squinting at the impossible blue above, and had one of those moments of gentle self-reflection that holidays seem to invite. There I was, someone who had packed walking guides and energy bars and a compass I did not know how to use, defeated by sunshine and perfectly happy about it.

The rest of the week developed its own rhythm. I would rise early, walk while the air still carried some coolness from the night, then retreat to the villa's terrace as the heat built. Sometimes I made it to the coast, sometimes I simply wandered the lanes around Cabrils, discovering fig trees heavy with fruit and the occasional startled tortoise. The afternoons were for reading in patches of shade, for cold beers and siestas that felt earned rather than indulgent.

On my final morning, I walked one last time to that first cove. The sea was calmer, the light softer, and I arrived without the desperate gasping of my initial attempt. I had learned, finally, to match my pace to the place, to let the weather shape my days rather than fight against it. The coffee stain on my shirt had never quite washed out. I wore it anyway, sitting on the rocks with my feet in the water, already half-planning when I might return.