I have never been brilliant with hire cars, so the fact I made it from Palma airport to Portocolom without incident felt like a personal triumph. That triumph lasted roughly forty seconds after I parked at Luxus Finca Es Reco. I stepped out, stretched my legs, and promptly walked straight into a low stone wall I somehow had not noticed. My sunglasses went flying, my dignity went with them, and a passing gecko appeared to judge me. Welcome to Majorca.

The finca itself, thankfully, restored my composure almost immediately. It sits in that perfect spot where you feel properly secluded without being inconveniently remote. The stone facade glowed that warm honey colour you only seem to get in the Balearics, and the pool shimmered with the kind of blue that makes you want to abandon unpacking indefinitely. I resisted, though barely.

I had arrived with grand hiking ambitions. The coastline around Portocolom is criss-crossed with trails, and I had spent the flight studying routes like a general planning a campaign. The weather, however, had clearly not read my itinerary. The first morning dawned hot. Not pleasant Mediterranean warm, but the sort of heat that makes you reconsider every life choice that led you to attempt a twelve-kilometre coastal walk before noon. I made it approximately two hundred metres along the Cami de Sa Punta before admitting defeat and retreating to the finca's shaded terrace with a glass of something cold and local.

This became something of a pattern. I would wake early, full of determination, consult the weather with the seriousness of a sailor, and set off with my rucksack and optimistic water supply. The path from Cala Marcal toward the lighthouse at Punta de n'Amer promised spectacular cliff views, and occasionally delivered them. More often, the September humidity turned the trail into an endurance test that had me seeking out any excuse to pause. A particularly interesting rock formation. A goat with attitude. A tiny cove that demanded investigation. I became excellent at finding reasons to stop.

The weather shifted dramatically on my fourth day. A proper storm rolled in from the east, all dramatic skies and sudden downpours. I had been mid-walk, naturally, and got thoroughly soaked before reaching shelter in a beach bar near S'Algar. Rather than frustration, I felt something close to relief. The heat had broken, and when the rain cleared that evening, the air carried that clean, washed quality that makes everything feel renewed. I walked back to the finca along wet lanes, my shoes squelching cheerfully, and spotted a rainbow hanging over the harbour that felt almost embarrassingly perfect.

Those cooler days that followed transformed my walking entirely. I covered ground I had abandoned in the heat, discovering the trail that winds through pine woods above Cala sa Nau, emerging suddenly onto viewpoints that made me actually say "blimey" out loud with nobody around to hear. The path to Cala Estreta became a favourite, narrow and occasionally scrambly, rewarding effort with a beach that felt genuinely hidden.

What I gradually understood, and what the finca's peaceful setting helped me absorb, was that my rigid walking plans had been the problem, not the weather. The heat forced me to slow down, to notice details I would have marched past. The storm delivered unexpected beauty. Letting go of my itinerary let me experience the place properly.

On my final evening, I walked slowly from the finca down toward Portocolom harbour as the light turned golden. Fishermen were mending nets, the water lay impossibly still, and my only plan was to find somewhere serving fresh seafood. I arrived slightly sunburned, definitely more relaxed than when I had arrived, and no longer walking into walls.