I have never been so pleased to see a hire car in my life, and that includes the time my mate Dave turned up with a convertible in Malaga. The flight into Ibiza had been fine, the taxi to the hire place had been fine, but then I discovered that my carefully printed directions to Villa Can Portixu were sitting on my kitchen table in Croydon. Brilliant. There I stood in Santa Eulalia des Riu, phone battery at four percent, trying to remember whether I needed to head towards the coast or away from it. I chose wrong, obviously, and spent twenty minutes driving up a lane so narrow that I had to fold the wing mirrors in. A very patient local on a scooter eventually pointed me back the right way, laughing in that good-natured way that says "another lost tourist, how original."

The villa itself sits in a quiet spot not far from the town, and my first impression was that I had definitely not packed enough loose clothing. The heat hit me like opening an oven door, that particular dry Ibizan warmth that makes you immediately want to find shade and a cold drink. I dumped my bags, changed into shorts and trainers, and decided that a walk was exactly what I needed to stretch my legs after the flight and my unintended scenic tour of the local countryside.

My plan was ambitious, perhaps foolishly so. I had read about the coastal path heading east from Santa Eulalia, a route that follows the shoreline with views across to the little island of Tagomago. I set off mid-afternoon, water bottle in hand, feeling rather pleased with myself. The path starts near the marina, all smart yachts and waterfront cafes, then quickly becomes more rugged as you leave the town behind. For the first twenty minutes I was striding along, nodding at other walkers, enjoying the smell of pine and salt. Then the path started to climb, and I realised that walking in thirty-degree heat is not remotely the same as my usual weekend stroll around Lloyd Park.

By the time I reached a small cove called Cala Pada, I was a sweating mess. The beach there is lovely, all pale sand and shallow turquoise water, and I sat on a rock like a stranded walrus, wondering whose idea this had been. A family nearby were having a picnic in the shade of the pine trees, looking cool and collected, while I dripped onto my own shoes. I had intended to push on to the next bay, maybe even as far as Cala Martina, but the heat had other plans. I am not too proud to admit when I am beaten, and I was thoroughly beaten.

The walk back was slower, more thoughtful, and I found myself noticing things I had missed in my initial enthusiasm. The way the light changes on the water as the afternoon moves on, turning from bright blue to something deeper and more silver. The old dry stone walls that terrace the hillside, built who knows how many years ago. A lizard darting across the path, far quicker than I was managing. I stopped at a small bar near the marina and drank a clara, that perfect Spanish mixture of beer and lemonade, and felt genuinely content in a way that my rushed morning had not allowed.

That evening back at the villa, I sat by the pool as the temperature finally dropped to something bearable. The sky went that particular Mediterranean pink, and I made a decision. Tomorrow I would walk again, but I would start early, before the heat built up. I would take more water, perhaps a hat, and I would not try to be a hero. There is something humbling about being outdone by the weather, about realising that your plans are less important than working with where you actually are. Ibiza in summer does not compromise, and neither, I decided, should my approach to enjoying it.

I did walk the next morning, and the morning after that, each time learning a little more about pacing myself, about reading the conditions, about the simple pleasure of being somewhere beautiful without rushing through it. The coastal paths around Santa Eulalia became familiar, friendly even, though I never did make it all the way to Cala Martina on foot. Some things can wait for another visit, or perhaps not at all. The best holidays leave you wanting more, after all, not wishing you had done less.