I have never been very good at reading maps, which is a polite way of saying I once spent forty minutes driving round a roundabout near Alicante convinced I was making progress. So when my partner handed me the directions to Dehesa de Campoamor, a finca just outside Valencia, I should have known trouble was brewing.

The journey from the airport had been pleasant enough. Warm air through the window, orange groves blurring past, that particular Spanish light that makes everything look slightly golden even when you are lost. Then came the turning. A dirt track, a sign that might have said the right thing or might have been warning about goats, and suddenly we were bumping along what felt like a dried riverbed. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "we agreed you would use the sat nav" look. I had, in fact, been using the sat nav. I had just also been ignoring it, because surely this scenic route was more authentic.

The scenic route deposited us at a locked gate with a very large dog on the other side. The dog was not aggressive, merely disappointed. I could relate. A phone call later, we were back on the proper road, which was paved and everything, and finally pulling up to the finca proper.

First impressions? I stood there like a proper fool, dusty from the detour, and simply stared. Dehesa de Campoamor sits among low hills with that particular Valencian countryside spread around it, all dry earth and stubborn green and the distant shimmer of the sea. The building itself is old stone and terracotta, nothing fancy, nothing trying too hard. A proper working finca that happens to welcome guests who cannot follow simple directions.

We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person would do: went for a walk immediately. The coast was calling, and the weather was perfect for it. Not yet the brutal heat of high summer, but warm enough that I was in shorts and already slightly pink about the knees. The path from the finca joins a coastal track that winds through scrub and pine, and within twenty minutes we had views of the Mediterranean glinting between the trees.

That first evening, we walked for miles. The light changed as we went, that softening that happens here before sunset, everything turning honey-coloured. We passed a few other walkers, exchanged the nod of people who have chosen the sensible life. My legs ached in the good way. My partner, who has the patience of a saint and the navigation skills I lack, pointed out landmarks for future reference. I nodded along, already knowing I would forget.

The weather, of course, had its own ideas. We had planned a long coastal hike for our second day, one of those ambitious routes along the cliffs towards the nearest cove. I had packed water, snacks, a hat with a proper brim. I was prepared. What I had not prepared for was the Levante wind picking up overnight, that warm easterly that comes off the Mediterranean and turns pleasant walking into something more like a battle with invisible hands pushing you sideways.

By mid-morning, the temperature had climbed and the wind was gusting hard enough to make the pines creak. Our ambitious cliff walk felt less appealing. We made it perhaps a mile before conceding defeat, sand in our eyes, hair everywhere, looking like we had been in some minor natural disaster. A group of Spanish retirees passed us going the other way, properly equipped, utterly unbothered. One woman gave me a sympathetic smile that contained multitudes.

So we adapted, because that is what you do. The finca has its own grounds, olive trees and a small orchard, and we spent that windy afternoon wandering there instead, sheltered enough to be pleasant, warm enough to sit outside with a book and feel smug about being in Spain while somewhere back home it was probably raining. The wind rattled the shutters and I felt rather pleased with our flexibility, though my partner pointed out that flexibility was easy when the alternative was being blown off a cliff.

The next morning brought calmer conditions and we set out early, properly early, before the heat built. The coastal path in gentler weather was a different creature entirely. We walked south along the cliffs, the sea below turning from grey to turquoise as the sun climbed, passing through patches of wild rosemary that released their scent as we brushed past. The path dipped down to a small cove, more pebbles than sand, where we paddled like children and I cut my toe on a rock because I never look where I am going.

By the time we turned back, the warmth had settled properly. I was sweating, slightly sunburned despite the hat, and happier than I had been in months. There is something about walking in heat that strips things back, makes you aware of your body in a way that desk life never does. Each small decision matters. More water now, or push on to the next bit of shade? Rest here, or there where the view is better?

That evening, back at the finca, I sat with a cold drink and my sore toe and watched the light fade over the hills. The wind had dropped completely. Somewhere a dog barked, possibly the same disappointed dog from our arrival. I thought about my terrible navigation, our aborted cliff walk, the simple pleasure of adapting and finding something good anyway. I am not a person who adapts easily, generally. I like plans, maps, knowing where I am going. But there is something in this landscape, in the warmth and the walking and the way the weather shifts and you shift with it, that makes rigidity feel foolish.

We walked every day after that, shorter routes in the hotter hours, longer ones at dawn and dusk. I learned to check the wind forecast. I learned, slightly, to read the map. The finca became our base, our shelter, the place we returned to with dusty feet and that particular tiredness that comes from proper outdoor days.

On our last morning, I got up early and walked alone, just a short loop before breakfast. The air was cool, the light fresh, everything quiet except birds and my own footsteps. I found a spot on a low hill with a view of the sea and sat there, thinking about nothing much, which is a skill I am trying to learn. The warmth was building already, promising another beautiful day for someone else. I walked back slowly, not wanting to arrive, already plotting when we might return.

Some holidays you remember for the sights, the restaurants, the photographs. This one I will remember for walking, for heat, for the gentle lesson of letting the day unfold as it wants to. And for the large dog, who on our departure watched us leave with what I choose to believe was fondness, though it was probably just hunger.