I have never been brilliant at packing for holidays, and my trip to San Bartolome de Tirajana proved it rather spectacularly. There I was, standing at Manchester Airport security, watching a very patient Spanish gentleman hold up my rucksack while I explained that yes, those were indeed walking boots, and no, I had not realised they needed to go in the tray separately. The boots in question were brand new, stiff as boards, and purchased in a fit of optimism three days prior. I had grand visions of striding along Gran Canaria's coastline like some seasoned explorer. Reality, as ever, had other ideas.

The drive from the airport took us up through winding roads that seemed to cling to the mountainside for dear life. My partner drove while I clutched my seatbelt and made unnecessary comments about braking distances. San Bartolome de Tirajana sits in the south of the island, nestled into the landscape rather than dominating it, and our holiday home appeared around a bend looking impossibly peaceful. Whitewashed walls, a small terrace, and what I can only describe as an aggressive amount of bougainvillea. I had expected something pleasant; I had not expected to feel immediately sheepish about my airport performance.

We dumped our bags and I immediately laced up my ridiculous boots. The plan was simple: walk down to the coast, find a coastal path, enjoy the famous Gran Canaria sunshine. The weather that afternoon was glorious, properly warm without being oppressive, the kind of heat that makes British people slightly giddy and prone to overconfidence. We set off downhill towards the coast near Maspalomas, my boots making a satisfyingly serious clumping sound that I found deeply pleasing.

The coastal path started beautifully. Volcanic rock formations, the Atlantic crashing about in that dramatic way it has, and a steady breeze that kept everything comfortable. I was already composing my smug return-to-work anecdote. Then the breeze stopped. Quite suddenly, as if someone had switched it off. The temperature seemed to jump ten degrees in as many minutes, and I became acutely aware that my "seasoned explorer" aesthetic did not include adequate water. My new boots, meanwhile, had begun a systematic campaign against my heels that I can only describe as personal.

We turned back. There is no nobility in heat exhaustion, and I say this as someone who has now experienced the early warning signs while pretending everything was fine. The walk back uphill was slower, considerably more humiliating, and punctuated by my partner's infuriatingly cheerful commentary about how sensible sandals would have been. I did not speak to her for at least forty minutes, which in holiday terms is practically a divorce.

That evening, sitting on our terrace with a beer and my boots conspicuously abandoned in the corner, I watched the weather change again. Clouds rolled in from somewhere, the temperature dropped to something civilised, and I felt that particular foolishness that comes from mistaking enthusiasm for preparation. The boots stayed in the corner for three days. I walked in borrowed trainers, covered less dramatic ground, and enjoyed myself considerably more.

The weather in Gran Canaria, I came to understand, has opinions. Mornings could be fresh enough to need a light jumper. Midday could be fierce. Afternoons sometimes brought that strange stillness, the heat building until you wondered if you had imagined the breeze entirely. We learned to walk early, to seek shade without shame, to treat the sunshine as something generous but not to be taken for granted.

My final morning, I did wear the boots again, now softened slightly and paired with proper socks and an actual water bottle. We walked a shorter coastal loop near Playa del Ingles, and they performed adequately. I did not stride like an explorer. I walked like a middle-aged man from Stockport who had learned a small but valuable lesson about hubris and footwear. It was, in its way, perfect.