I have never been so grateful for air conditioning in my entire life, and that includes the summer I spent working in a kitchen with a broken extractor fan. The journey to our Santa Pola holiday home had been straightforward enough, a flight into Alicante followed by a hire car that smelled faintly of pine and regret. But the real comedy began when I confidently strode up to what I was absolutely certain was our villa, key code at the ready, only to discover I was trying to break into someone's permanent residence three doors down. The actual property, when I finally located it, was mercifully identical in that white-washed, terracotta-roofed way that makes every Spanish coastal home look like its neighbour.

September heat in Valencia is no joke. I had packed for gentle autumn breezes because someone, possibly me, had confused Valencia with Valencia in a parallel universe where Spain does not turn into a furnace. The first impression of our Santa Pola base was therefore dominated by the glorious whoosh of cool air as we stepped inside, followed immediately by my partner's withering look that said everything about my packing choices without requiring actual words.

The villa sat in that pleasant residential pocket of Santa Pola where locals clearly outnumber visitors at this time of year. Our terrace overlooked gardens that had that particular late-summer weariness, bougainvillea still clinging on with determined colour but the lawn showing signs of having been through something significant. The communal pool, visible from our balcony, was populated by a handful of Spanish families whose children treated the September school schedule with the relaxed attitude I deeply envied.

What struck me immediately was how the season shaped absolutely everything. The light had that golden, slightly exhausted quality that comes when summer has done its worst and is considering bowing out. We arrived at siesta time, that glorious Spanish invention that makes perfect sense when you step out of conditioned air into what felt like opening an oven door to check on a roast. The streets were empty, shutters down, the whole town holding its breath until cooler hours returned.

My first foray to the local supermarket was a lesson in seasonal humility. I had intended a brisk walk, perhaps a bit of exploration. I managed approximately four hundred metres before retreating with melting ice cream and a newfound respect for anyone who voluntarily exercises in this climate. The shop itself was a haven of local families doing sensible evening shopping, clearly amused by the pink-faced Englishman who had attempted midday activity.

As afternoon softened into evening, Santa Pola proper began to stir. The promenade filled with the timeless Spanish ritual of the paseo, generations walking together in that unhurried way that makes you question every life choice that has led you to rush anywhere. We found a beachside spot for something cold and regrettably ordered paella without checking if they were still serving it, September being the month when many places quietly retire their massive pans until the crowds return. The waiter was kind about our ignorance, which somehow made it worse.

Sitting on our terrace that first night, the heat finally releasing its grip, I watched bats dart above the pool and listened to distant conversation from neighbouring villas. The season had forced a pace upon us that I would never have chosen but instantly recognised as necessary. There is something quietly instructive about being humbled by weather, about arriving with plans and discovering that September in this corner of Valencia has its own unhurried rhythm that demands accommodation rather than conquest.

I thought about my misdirected arrival, my inappropriate clothing, my melted ice cream. The villa's air conditioning hummed its steady approval. Tomorrow, I decided, we would attempt the salt flats at dawn, when the flamingos feed and the temperature permits actual movement. For now, I surrendered completely to the season's terms, which is perhaps what proper holidays are meant to teach us.