The sat nav had other ideas about how to reach Torrevieja, which is how I ended up in a lemon grove just outside Alicante, questioning every life choice that had led me to trust a machine with the spatial awareness of a distracted toddler. Three-point turn became twelve-point turn. A local chap leaning on a gate found the whole thing deeply amusing, which made one of us. By the time I finally rolled up to the property in La Mata, I had enough citrus-scented anxiety to power a small village.

First impressions, though? Worth every wrong turn.

The place sat there in proper Spanish sunshine, all white walls and terracotta promise, looking like it had been waiting specifically for someone who needed convincing that holidays could recover from shaky beginnings. I dumped my case, found the terrace, and stood there like a lemon myself - still slightly dazed, definitely overheated, but finally horizontal in spirit if not yet in body.

La Mata beach announced itself the next morning. I had grand plans for a serious coastal hike, the sort where you stride purposefully along cliff paths feeling like a travel documentary presenter. The weather, naturally, had its own script. Twenty-six degrees by nine in the morning, rising fast, with humidity that wrapped around you like a warm flannel. My "brisk walk" became a saunter, then a shuffle, then a strategic retreat to a beachside cafe for horchata and serious reconsideration of my fitness credentials.

The coastal path runs both directions from La Mata, and I tackled it in sections across several days, learning fast that Spanish summer walking requires the timing of a cat burglar. Up at six, out by half past, moving north toward Cabo Cervera while the air still carried memory of night coolness. The rock pools there, when the tide obliged, kept me occupied for hours like a child with better excuses. Herons stood in the shallows judging my life choices. Fair enough.

South toward Torrevieja town, the promenade stretches for miles, and I made the rookie error of attempting this at midday exactly once. One hour, one bottle of water gone, and a complexion approaching boiled lobster sent me scurrying into a supermarket for emergency ice cream and dignity recovery. The weather had won that round decisively.

What I learned, gradually, was surrender. The heat dictated rhythm, not me. Early walks, late walks, the middle hours surrendered to siesta logic whether I officially napped or simply read books in shaded corners. The property's terrace became command central, breakfast spot, evening debrief zone. I watched the light change across the salt flats, that particular pink-gold haze that makes ordinary evenings feel slightly cinematic.

Torrevieja's working harbour fascinated me more than I expected - proper fishing boats, proper fish being dealt with properly, none of your polished marina performance. I walked there often, looping back through streets where laundry hung like colourful flags and old boys played dominoes with the intensity of chess grandmasters.

By week's end, my coastal ambitions had transformed entirely. No longer measuring walks by distance or destination, but by moments worth keeping - the heron that didn't fly off, the cafe owner who remembered my order, the particular quality of light at seven when the day finally exhaled. The sat nav mishap felt like prophecy now. Some journeys need diversion to find their proper route.

I left with calves that had actually seen sunlight and a newfound respect for weather that refuses to accommodate human schedules. The property had become familiar in that lovely way where you know which floorboard creaks and where the best morning shade falls. Already plotting return, though this time with a paper map and significantly lower expectations of my own navigation skills.