I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to leave my walking boots on the kitchen table at home. There they sat, perfectly positioned next to the fruit bowl, while I was halfway through security at Gatwick patting myself down like a man who'd forgotten something crucial. Which I had. My mate Dave just shook his head and bought me a coffee that cost roughly the same as a small car.

The flight to Palma was unremarkable, save for me spending forty-five minutes googling whether Decathlon in Inca would be open on a Sunday. It would not. This set the tone for my footwear adventures at the Ibel Son Serra de Marina, a modest little place in a quiet corner of Majorca that I'd picked precisely because it promised coastal walks right from the doorstep.

We collected the hire car and drove north through flatlands of almond groves, the February sun already warm enough to make me regret the fleece I'd insisted on wearing. Dave had the window down and was making appreciative noises about the Tramuntana mountains in the distance, but I was too busy worrying about whether my trainers would survive what I'd planned.

The property itself was exactly as advertised, which is rarer than you'd think. A simple terraced house with a small patio out back, the sort of place that knows exactly what it is and doesn't pretend otherwise. I dumped my bag and immediately went to inspect the path down to the coast, Dave trailing behind with the energy of a man who'd rather find the nearest bar.

The trail started practically from our back gate, winding through low scrub and the occasional stand of pine. Within ten minutes we could see the sea, that particular Mediterranean blue that makes you understand why people write poems about this stuff. I was already congratulating myself on my excellent planning when I discovered that my trainers, perfectly adequate for pavement pounding in Croydon, had approximately the same grip on limestone scree as a pair of buttered ice skates.

Dave found this hilarious. I found it less so while clinging to a rock face that was, in retrospect, probably only slightly inclined. But we pressed on, because the weather was glorious and the path kept offering these little coves and inlets that demanded investigation. The sun beat down with surprising intensity for February, and I shed layers until I was down to a t-shirt, sweating and swearing at my footwear in roughly equal measure.

By midday we'd reached a proper beach, all pebbles and turquoise shallows, and I made the executive decision to walk back barefoot rather than risk further humiliation. The stones were warm, the water shockingly cold, and I spent the return journey doing an awkward hop-skip that Dave captured for posterity on his phone.

That evening, nursing a beer on the patio, I watched the sunset turn the sky proper ridiculous colours and admitted something to myself. I'd planned this trip around ticking off routes, accumulating miles, being the sort of purposeful walker who knows exactly where they're going. Instead I'd spent the day improvising, complaining, and ultimately experiencing the coast in a far more immediate way than my carefully planned itinerary would have allowed. The weather had been too warm for my serious walking plans anyway, forcing a slower pace, more stops, more looking around rather than at my feet.

I still bought proper boots from a shop in Can Picafort the next day, mind. I'm not completely reformed.