The sat nav had other ideas, didn't it. Three hours after leaving Alicante airport, my partner and I found ourselves down a dirt track somewhere near what I think was Torrevieja, staring at a very closed gate and a very angry-looking goat. Turns out I'd punched in "Orihuela" rather than "Orihuela Costa," which in Spanish navigation terms is roughly equivalent to confusing Cornwall with Croydon. Forty-five minutes of increasingly tense reversing later, we finally spotted the sea glinting in the distance and the cluster of white buildings that would be home for the week.

Our holiday rental sat in a quiet residential pocket just back from the coastline, the sort of place where British voices drift over garden walls alongside the smell of someone else's barbecue. I dumped the bags with theatrical exhaustion and immediately marched onto the terrace to assess walking territory. The weather app had promised twenty-two degrees and gentle sunshine. The actual sky suggested something closer to thirty, with a wind that felt like opening an oven door to check on a roast. Still, I was determined. I'd packed proper walking boots, you see. Three pairs of socks, blister plasters, the full expedition kit. This was going to be a hiking holiday if it killed me, which by midday it very nearly did.

The coastal path south towards Cabo Roig starts innocently enough. Paved promenades, early morning dog walkers, the odd jogger who made me feel simultaneously lazy and vindicated. But the sun climbs fast in that part of Valencia, and by ten o'clock my carefully planned route had begun to feel like a death march organised by someone who really didn't like me. My partner, sensibly clad in sandals and carrying nothing but a bottle of water, kept stopping to examine wildflowers while I stood there sweating into my merino wool base layer, wondering where exactly my life had gone wrong.

We made it to the first beach bar somewhere around eleven, by which point I'd abandoned all dignity and was walking with my boots tied around my neck like some deranged tourist necklace. The local beer tasted like salvation. Sitting there with my feet in the sand, watching the Mediterranean do that impossible blue thing it does, I had one of those moments of clarity that holidays sometimes grant you. I'd become so fixated on the idea of a proper walking holiday that I'd forgotten why people actually come to places like Orihuela Costa. It wasn't about the miles or the boots or the self-congratulatory Strava upload. It was about moving slowly enough to notice things.

So we adapted, as you do when the weather makes your original plans look frankly stupid. Early starts became our rhythm, out before the heat gathered its full weight, wandering the clifftop trails between La Zenia and Playa Flamenca while the light was still soft and forgiving. By noon we'd retreated to the terrace or the pool, reading books and occasionally dozing with the guilty pleasure of people who know they've earned their laziness. Late afternoons brought gentler strolls to the local shops, the kind of walking that doesn't require special socks or emergency whistles.

The coastal paths around there reward this slower approach anyway. There's a stretch between Punta Prima and Torrevieja where the rock pools hold enough marine life to keep you distracted for hours if you let them. Hermit crabs performing their awkward real estate swaps. Tiny fish darting through weed that sways like something from a nature documentary. I'd never have noticed any of it at my original marching pace, too busy checking my heart rate and muttering about elevation gain.

By the end of the week, my walking boots sat reproachfully in the corner of the bedroom while I lived quite happily in a pair of battered trainers that cost twelve euros from a supermarket. The weather had forced a kind of surrender, and I was genuinely grateful for it. There's something humbling about being outsmarted by your own holiday, about realising that the best experiences come from responding to what's actually in front of you rather than stubbornly executing a plan.

On our final morning, we walked one last time to the small cove near Cala Capitan, arriving as the sun cleared the horizon and the water lay perfectly still. I waded in up to my knees, boots nowhere in sight, and stood there like an idiot grinning at the Mediterranean. Sometimes the wrong turn leads you exactly where you needed to be.