I have never been so relieved to see a village the size of a postage stamp as I was when we finally rolled into La Azohia. The sat-nav had taken us on what I can only describe as a scenic route through Murcia's back roads, which is a polite way of saying we got spectacularly lost somewhere between Cartagena and our own sanity. My partner was navigating, and by navigating I mean holding the phone at arm's length and saying helpful things like "I think the sea should be on the left" while I white-knuckled the steering wheel down a track that was definitely not on any official map.

The mishap, because there is always one with us, came when I confidently marched up to what I believed was our holiday home and tried the door code. Nothing. I tried again, slower, as if the keypad might appreciate my patience. Still nothing. A small dog began yapping from the balcony above, and an elderly gentleman in vest and slippers emerged to observe the British fool attempting to break into his garden shed. Turns out I was one street off and two dignity points down. The actual property, when found, was mercifully unlocked and considerably more spacious than a shed.

La Azohia sits in a little fold of coastline that feels genuinely untouched, the sort of place where you half expect a fisherman to wander past with his morning catch and a philosophical observation about the tide. Our terrace looked directly out towards the Islas Hormigas marine reserve, and I must have stood there for a full ten minutes just letting the warmth settle on my face. Murcia's sunshine has a particular weight to it, a proper Mediterranean heaviness that makes you aware you are definitely not in Manchester anymore.

We had arrived with grand plans for serious walking. The Cabo Tinoso peninsula loomed invitingly to the west, all rugged cliffs and military history, and I had researched coastal paths with the enthusiasm of someone who owns proper hiking boots and wants everyone to know it. The first morning, we set off with water bottles, sun cream, and what I considered appropriate determination. Within forty minutes, I was reconsidering my entire relationship with physical exertion. The path from La Azohia towards the old coastal batteries is stunning, genuinely, with the turquoise water crashing against ochre rocks far below, but it is also exposed and steep and designed by people who clearly never carried a rucksack containing three types of emergency snack.

The weather, that glorious Murcian weather, became the unexpected director of our holiday. We had anticipated mild spring warmth, the sort that flatters you into walking further than you should. Instead, we got an early heatwave that sent temperatures climbing towards thirty degrees by mid-morning. Our ambitious twelve-kilometre loop shrank to a sensible out-and-back to a small cove where we collapsed like landed fish and shared a warm bottle of water.

By day three, we had adapted. We became dawn walkers, setting out at that magical hour when the light is honey-coloured and the path still holds the night's coolness. There is something almost meditative about pacing along the coast as the sun rises over the water, your shadow stretching long ahead of you, the only sounds being your own breathing and the occasional early fishing boat. We found a route eastwards towards Playa de la Higuera that became our regular, less demanding but no less beautiful, with wild rosemary scenting the air and the odd rabbit bolting from the scrub.

The heat changed our rhythm entirely. Afternoons became strictly for reading on the terrace, for siestas that we initially resisted as too touristy and then embraced with the fervour of converts. We discovered that the local beach, small and pebbly and wonderfully uncommercial, was perfect for a cooling paddle when the walking was done. The water stays swimmable well into autumn, apparently, though I found it brisk enough to produce the sort of sharp intake of breath that passes for exercise when you have abandoned the coastal path for the day.

What struck me, reflecting on it now, is how willingly we surrendered our plans. I am usually the sort who ticks off destinations, who measures a holiday by achievements and photographs of viewpoints reached. La Azohia and that unexpected heat taught me something about following the day rather than forcing it. When the temperature soared, we sought shade. When the morning cool arrived, we walked. It sounds simple, embarrassingly so, but I returned home feeling genuinely rested in a way that more ambitious holidays rarely achieve.

Our final morning walk took us to a viewpoint we had missed earlier, a slight detour from our usual route that revealed the whole bay spread below, the village tiny and white against the blue. I stood there sweating pleasantly, my partner beside me, and felt that particular holiday sadness of something ending mixed with gratitude that it happened at all. The dog from the garden shed barked in the distance, perhaps in farewell, perhaps at another lost tourist. Either way, it felt right.