I have never been brilliant at reading maps, which is how I ended up driving our hire car down what I can only describe as a goat track somewhere near Felanitx, convinced I was on the road to Son Macia. The sat nav had given up on me around ten minutes earlier, and my partner was doing that thing where they stare silently out the window, pretending to admire the olive groves but actually questioning every life choice that led them to this moment. We were meant to be at our finca by four. It was half past five, I had just reversed into a dry stone wall with an embarrassing crunch, and a local farmer had waved at me with what I choose to believe was sympathy rather than mockery.

When we finally found the proper turning, the place revealed itself like a reward for our suffering. Son Macia sits in the sort of countryside that makes you forget you were ever stressed, surrounded by low hills and the kind of silence that only exists where there are no main roads. Our host had left the key in the traditional wooden door, and stepping inside felt like walking into someone else's very comfortable life. Terracotta floors, thick walls, a kitchen that smelled faintly of lemons from the bowl on the table. I immediately planned to become the sort of person who owns a finca and greets guests with homemade almond cake. This fantasy lasted approximately until I discovered I had packed three left walking boots and one right.

The weather had been forecast as settled warmth, the sort of October sunshine that makes autumn in Majorca so appealing for walkers like us. We had grand plans for the coastal path from Cala d'Or, perhaps pushing on towards Cala Ferrera, imagining ourselves as rugged Mediterranean explorers. The first morning delivered on this promise beautifully. We drove the short distance to the coast, parked with the smugness of people who had actually remembered where they left the car, and set off along the clifftops with proper walking boots, packed lunches, and that particular optimism that comes from not having checked the afternoon forecast.

The path from Cala d'Or towards the eastern coves is genuinely lovely, winding through pine woods that open suddenly onto views of turquoise water. We passed a few other walkers, exchanged the nod of mutual recognition that says we are all superior to people still in bed, and found a rocky outcrop for our sandwiches. I may have slightly exaggerated my hillwalking experience to my partner, who was being diplomatic about my pace. The return loop took us inland through scrubland where wild rosemary grows in thick bushes, and I spent an enjoyable twenty minutes failing to identify any birds whatsoever.

That evening, sitting on our terrace with a glass of local red, I felt thoroughly pleased with myself. The warm weather, the exercise, the general sense of having earned our dinner. I even checked the forecast for the next day, noted it said cloudy, and thought nothing of it.

The following morning we woke to something that can only be described as proper rain. Not a drizzle, not a passing shower, but the determined, soaking kind that makes a mockery of your plans. We waited an hour, made coffee, waited another hour, made more coffee. By eleven the sky had settled into a stubborn grey that showed no sign of shifting. Our coastal hike to Porto Colom was clearly not happening.

This is where I learned something about myself. I am not good at doing nothing. My partner, meanwhile, had settled onto the covered terrace with a book and an attitude of serene acceptance that I found vaguely irritating in its maturity. I paced. I checked the weather app repeatedly, as if my attention might change it. I suggested a drive to Felanitx, which we did, getting wet between car and cafe, then wet again between cafe and car. The town was pleasant enough, all sandstone buildings and a market square that would have been charming in sunshine, but my heart was not in it. I wanted my walk.

By late afternoon, the rain had softened to a drizzle and I became insistent. We would do a short loop from the finca itself, just to stretch our legs. My partner looked at me with the expression of someone who knows when argument is futile. We set off up the lane behind Son Macia, into the hills, wearing waterproofs that proved not entirely waterproof.

Here is what I had not properly understood about walking in warm rain. It is not unpleasant, exactly, but it is a different experience entirely from the crisp, clear day before. The path became slippery, the views vanished into mist, and I spent most of the walk watching my feet rather than the landscape. We turned back sooner than planned, arriving at the finca damp and slightly shamefaced, to find the sky clearing in that particularly taunting way that weather has.

The next two days redeemed everything. The sun returned with what felt like apology, and we walked the coast properly, from Cala Serena round to the watchtower at Cala Pi, the path sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy, always with the sea to our left and the scent of pine in the warm air. I stopped complaining about the rain, though I did mention it perhaps more than necessary. My partner, to their credit, did not mention my earlier grumpiness at all.

On our final morning, I woke early and walked alone from the finca as dawn broke, up through the terraced fields where almond trees were beginning to drop their leaves. The air was cool enough for a jumper, warming quickly as the sun rose. I thought about how I had let one wet day unsettle me, how I had wanted to control the experience rather than accept what was offered. It is easy to be philosophical at sunrise on a hillside in Majorca. The farmer who had watched me reverse into his wall passed on a tractor, waved again, and this time I was certain it was friendly.

We left Son Macia with walking boots properly dried on the terrace, a bottle of olive oil from the village, and my new resolution to be more adaptable. I suspect I will fail at this repeatedly. But I will remember the warm days on the coast, the unexpected rain, and the particular peace of a finca where the only sound at night is the occasional distant dog and the wind in the pines.