The drive from Murcia airport to Los Belones was going swimmingly until I realised, somewhere past Cartagena, that I had packed three left walking boots and not a single right one. Not three pairs. Three lefts. I still cannot explain this. My partner sat in the passenger seat of our hire car, holding up the evidence like a detective at a crime scene, while I muttered something about "packing in a rush" and tried to look dignified. We pulled into a sports shop in La Manga del Mar Menor where a very patient man sold me some cheap trainers that I would later describe as "perfectly adequate" and my partner would describe as "the colour of hospital corridors."

Los Belones itself sits on a gentle rise between the Mar Menor and the Mediterranean, and our villa was one of those whitewashed places with terracotta roof tiles and a pool that looked far more inviting in the photographs than it did at half past six on a February evening. The temperature had dropped to something that felt personally offensive. I stood by the pool in my new trainers, still sulking about the boots, while my partner negotiated with the key safe. The villa was proper Spanish suburbia, all quiet streets and the occasional dog giving us a performance review from behind a gate.

Morning brought the sun and my first proper look at where we were. The plan had been ambitious: a long coastal walk from Cabo de Palos, along the shore of the Mar Menor, then cutting across to the Mediterranean side. The weather, however, had other ideas. By ten o'clock it was twenty-two degrees and climbing, the sky that particular Spanish blue that makes British skies look apologetic. We set off from the lighthouse at Cabo de Palos with water bottles, sun cream, and what I can only describe as misplaced confidence.

The path along the Mar Menor is flat and forgiving, winding through salt flats where flamingos stand about looking faintly embarrassed by their own legs. I was already sweating in places I did not know could sweat. My cheap trainers, those hospital-corridor specials, were making a squelching noise that I chose to interpret as "breaking in nicely." We passed fishermen's huts and small boats pulled up on the shingle, the water so still it looked like you could walk across it. The plan was to do perhaps twelve miles, loop around, be back for late lunch.

By midday the temperature had hit twenty-six degrees. We had reached the point where the Mar Menor meets the Mediterranean, near the entrance to the harbour, and I was experiencing what I can only describe as a profound reconsideration of my life choices. My partner, who has the heat tolerance of a lizard, was still chipper. I was pouring water over my head and wondering if the flamingos had the right idea, standing in the shallows looking ridiculous but at least being sensible.

We abandoned the full circuit. This is the thing about walking in this part of Spain: the weather is not your enemy exactly, but it is certainly an unreliable narrator. What began as a hearty hike became a gentle stroll back to Cabo de Palos, followed by an emergency stop for horchata and a prolonged sit in the shade of a palm tree. I examined my trainers. They had, against all odds, survived. My feet had not.

The afternoon became pool-based. Our villa's little terrace caught the sun until evening, and we lay there like lizards ourselves, too warm to move, watching the light change over the hills. I thought about my three left boots, waiting uselessly in the suitcase. There was something almost philosophical about it, though perhaps that was just the heat talking. Sometimes your plans fall apart because of something completely absurd, and you end up with cheaper footwear and a shorter walk than intended, and it is still exactly what you needed.

That evening we walked the ten minutes into Los Belones village proper, which is not much more than a few streets of low houses and some excellent tapas bars. The temperature had dropped to something civilised. We ate grilled octopus and drank cold beer and I did not think once about mileage or pace or whether my trainers matched anything. The village was quiet, local, the kind of place where people clearly live rather than just visit.

The next morning we tried again, earlier this time, heading toward Calblanque Regional Park on the Mediterranean side. The landscape changes dramatically there, all golden cliffs and hidden coves, the path rocky and more demanding. We managed a decent stretch before the heat built again, watching the sea crash against rocks below. My trainers held up. My attitude adjusted. We were learning the rhythm of the place, which is essentially: move early, rest at midday, emerge again when the light softens.

By the end of the week I had stopped mourning my boots entirely. The cheap trainers, scuffed and salt-stained, had become something of a badge of honour. We walked every day, but never the epic routes I had planned. Instead we did shorter loops, explored the coastline in sections, let the weather dictate our pace rather than fighting it. It was better this way, more observant, less driven. I noticed things I would have marched past: the particular smell of the pine trees near the shore, the way the salt flats changed colour as the light moved, how the village came alive in the cool of evening.

On our last night we sat by the pool as the sun went down, the sky doing that spectacular Spanish sunset thing, all oranges and pinks that would look overdone in a painting. My feet were in the water, trainers finally off, and I felt that particular holiday contentment that comes from having done less than you planned but somehow more than you expected. The three left boots remained a mystery. I chose to see them as a gift, really. Without them, I would have walked too far, too fast, and missed the point entirely.