I have never been one to read a map properly, so it will come as no surprise that my journey to our holiday let in Calonge began with me confidently marching into the wrong villa three doors down. The key would not turn, the door would not budge, and I stood there jiggling it with increasing desperation while a very confused German couple peered at me through their kitchen window, no doubt wondering if this was some strange British tradition. My wife found the whole thing hilarious. I found it less so, particularly once I realised the actual property was the one with the clearly visible house number I had somehow walked straight past.

The drive from Girona Airport had been straightforward enough, winding down through the pine-scented hills of the Costa Brava with the late May sun pouring through the windscreen. We had packed for walking, for coastal rambles, for striding out along the famous Cami de Ronda that threads its way along this stretch of coastline. I had sturdy boots, breathable socks, the lot. I was ready to conquer the cliffs.

The villa itself, when I finally located it, sat tucked into a quiet residential pocket just back from Calonge's main beach strip. A modest terrace, a small pool that caught the afternoon light, and that particular hush you get in these Spanish coastal towns before the summer crowds descend. We dumped our bags, opened a bottle of cava we had picked up at a supermarket in Palamos, and made grand plans for the morning. Seven miles along the coast to Sant Antoni de Calonge, then onward to Platja d'Aro. A proper expedition.

What we had not accounted for was the Tramontana. The first night it began as a whisper, something rattling the shutters that I dismissed in my ignorance. By dawn it was howling down from the Pyrenees like something personally offended by our walking itinerary. I stepped onto the terrace in my shorts and immediately stepped back in. The thermometer claimed twenty-two degrees, but the wind was ripping the warmth clean off your skin. My carefully planned coastal hike suddenly seemed about as appealing as a swim in the North Sea.

We adapted, as one must. The morning became a wander through Calonge's old town instead, ducking into narrow medieval streets where the buildings huddled together and the wind could not reach us. We found a bakery doing proper pa amb tomaquet, that simple Catalan brilliance of bread rubbed with tomato and garlic, and ate it standing in a sunny corner of the Placa de la Catoral while locals went about their business entirely unbothered by the gale. There is something humbling about watching elderly Catalan women in cardigans strolling calmly through weather that had me considering thermal underwear.

By afternoon the Tramontana had relented slightly, enough that we risked a shorter walk along the coastal path south towards Torre Valentina. The beaches sat empty, the usual sunbathers driven off, and we had that extraordinary turquoise water entirely to ourselves. The path clung to low cliffs, dipped through pine woods, emerged onto little coves where fishing boats lay pulled up above the tide line. I found myself glad of the wind, in truth. Without it we would have stuck to our ambitious plan, marched straight past these quieter stretches, ticked off the miles without noticing the details.

The week continued in this fashion. We rose each morning hopeful, checked the wind, adjusted accordingly. Some days we managed proper walks, heading north towards La Fosca with its castle-topped headland, or weaving through the vineyards that still cling to the hills behind town. Other days the weather sent us inland to explore the Monday market at Platja d'Aro, or simply to linger over long lunches in Calonge's back-street restaurants where the fixed-price menu del dia could keep you occupied for hours.

I had come wanting to conquer the coast, to stride manfully from village to village with my boots and my sensible socks. Instead I learned something about the patience of holiday-making, about letting a place set its own pace. The Tramontana blew when it chose to blow. The paths would still be there next time. And there will be a next time, though I will definitely check the house number before trying the key.