I have never been brilliant with sat navs, so it was hardly a surprise when ours tried to send us through what appeared to be someone's olive grove rather than to our holiday let in Roda de Bara. My partner, who had been dozing, woke up to me doing a three-point turn between two very judgmental-looking goats. "Scenic route?" she asked, in that tone I know rather too well. Forty minutes later, sweating and slightly humbled, we finally spotted the place, tucked down a quiet lane with bougainvillea spilling over the wall like it owned the joint.

The first thing that hit me was the heat. Not the polite British summer warmth we are used to, but a proper, assertive Catalan sun that makes you realise your linen shirt was a terrible choice. We had arrived in late June, armed with walking boots and ambitious plans for coastal hikes, and I had imagined crisp mornings and breezy clifftops. Instead, stepping out of the car felt like opening an oven door someone else had left on.

Our host, a cheerful local woman called Montse, handed us the keys and immediately asked if we were walkers. I puffed up slightly and said yes, we had our sights set on the GR-92, the long-distance coastal path that runs through this stretch of Costa Daurada. She smiled in a way I now understand was gentle warning. "Muy calor," she said, gesturing at the sky. "Better early, better early." I nodded sagely. We would start at dawn, I told her. Very serious. Very prepared.

Reader, we were not very prepared.

The next morning we did manage to drag ourselves out before seven, which for me on holiday counts as practically heroic. The light was extraordinary, all honey and rose, and the path from Roda de Bara towards Torredembarra started promisingly enough. The pine woods smelled of resin and salt, and for perhaps twenty minutes I felt like one of those people in outdoor clothing adverts, purposeful and windswept. Then the sun climbed properly above the horizon and the temperature seemed to double every ten minutes. My ambitious plan of reaching Torredembarra and back before lunch began to feel like something written by someone who had never actually met the sun.

We made it to a small cove called Cala de la Mora, where a fisherman was already packing up, and I have rarely been so grateful for shade. My partner, who has better sense than me, had brought two litres of water. I had brought optimism and a single small bottle that was already warm. We sat on rocks, watching a heron stalk the shallows, and I had one of those small moments of clarity that heat and humility seem to bring. I am not a serious hiker, I realised. I am someone who likes the idea of being a serious hiker, preferably in mild weather with a pub at the end.

The weather had other plans for the rest of our stay. A heatwave settled over Catalonia like a cat that refuses to be moved, and our dawn walks became shorter, slower, and increasingly centred on wherever we might find cold drinks. We adapted, as one must. The pine-scented paths near the Roman aqueduct at Pont del Diable became our evening stroll instead, when the light turned golden and the temperature dropped to merely oppressive. We walked the beach at El Roc de Sant Gaieta, that odd little fishermen's quarter with its whitewashed houses and narrow passages, but even there the sand burned through our sandals by midday.

By day four, I had surrendered completely. We rose at six, walked for an hour while the world was still merciful, then retreated to the terrace of our Roda de Bara place with oranges from the market and a determination to do very little. The GR-92 would have to wait for another trip, another season, another version of myself who perhaps packs more water and fewer delusions.

I do not regret it. There is something rather freeing in admitting that your plans have been gently demolished by reality, and that the reality in question involves sitting in dappled shade with a cold beer, listening to cicadas. The coast here is beautiful, rugged and pine-fringed in a way that makes you understand why people paint. But it is also, in summer, emphatically hot, and I have learned that my relationship with walking works best when I am not actively melting.

On our last morning, we managed a proper stretch along the cliffs towards Cunit, starting before six and finishing as the sun began its daily campaign. The sea was flat and silver, and for those few cool hours, I was that person in the advert again, purposeful and windswept and only slightly damp with sweat. Then we turned back, bought pastries from a bakery that had just opened, and spent the rest of the morning doing very little indeed.

Some holidays teach you about a place. This one taught me about myself, mostly that I should listen to goats, pack more water, and never trust a sat nav near an olive grove.