Right then, let me tell you about the time I arrived at Can Bernat in Cala Mendia convinced I had become the sort of person who plans holidays properly. I had printed directions, highlighted routes, even packed a sensible hat. The flight to Palma was smooth enough that I started feeling smug, which is always a warning sign. Hired a car, cranked the air con, and set off down the Ma-15 feeling like a local already. That lasted roughly forty minutes until I missed the turn for Cala Mendia and found myself in a roundabout near Manacor going round three times while a lorry driver watched with what I can only describe as Mediterranean pity.

The villa itself sits tucked away in a quiet residential corner, nothing flashy from the outside, which I rather liked. I had built it up in my head as this grand finca moment, me sweeping through wooden gates with olives groves everywhere. Reality was more understated: neat gardens, a perfectly decent pool I immediately wanted to jump in, and that particular hush you get when you realise there is no traffic noise whatsoever. I stood there with my case still zipped, sweat starting to collect in that undignified way it does, and felt the particular relief of having not completely messed up the accommodation portion of the trip.

The first evening I had grand plans for a coastal walk. The weather had other ideas. September heat in Majorca does not mess about. I set off toward Cala Anguila, a little cove maybe twenty minutes on foot, armed with a water bottle I had already half-finished through sheer nerves. Made it perhaps ten minutes before accepting that walking at five in the afternoon was an activity designed for people with better heat tolerance and possibly Spanish blood. Retreated to the villa, discovered the outdoor shower, and stood under it like a man who had just crossed the Sahara rather than a suburban street.

Next morning I tried again, properly early this time, and the difference was ridiculous. The path toward Cala Mendia's own beach had that golden morning light, fishermen already heading out, actual locals walking dogs without apparent suffering. I felt briefly like I understood the place. The coastline here is all little inlets and rocky outcrops, nothing dramatic, just pleasantly crumbly cliffs and pine trees doing that thing where they lean away from the sea as if shy. I walked for an hour, found a spot to sit, and watched a woman in her seventies power past me in proper walking boots while I sat there in trainers that had already collected impressive amounts of reddish dust.

The weather kept shifting my plans, which sounds annoying but became oddly freeing. One day too hot for anything ambitious, so I did a short loop to the local shops, bought bread that was still warm, and ate it by the pool feeling no guilt whatsoever. Another morning overcast enough that I tackled the longer stretch toward Porto Cristo, maybe three miles along the coast path, passing those little calas where people were already setting up for the day. The clouds burned off by eleven and I found myself a cafe seat with a view, slightly smug about my timing.

By day four I had stopped pretending I was on some epic hiking holiday and settled into something better. Mornings for walking while the air still carried a bit of cool from the night, afternoons for horizontal purposes near water, evenings for wandering to nearby restaurants without any particular plan. The villa's terrace became my evaluation spot, glass of something local in hand, deciding whether tomorrow deserved ambition or surrender.

I never did become the person who prints directions without needing them. Roundabout incident aside, I also never quite mastered the confidence to walk in midday heat without looking like I had made a terrible mistake. But I did learn that Cala Mendia's coastline rewards the early riser and the realistic planner, that local bread is genuinely worth leaving the house for, and that sometimes the best holiday moments come from accepting you are not quite as capable as your booking confirmations suggested.