Or in my case, a caminar en el campo. Within seconds of my front door is a track that skirts around the village through the olive groves. I walk this route often, enjoying the tranquillity, the wild flowers, rabbits, hares, birds and the occasional butterfly. I didn't see a single soul in the groves. I like that.

The verges were full of wild chicory that day — Chicória in the local tongue — tall, straggly stems topped with those small, intense blue flowers that look almost too vivid for a dusty Andalucían track. Alongside them, the last of the season's poppies were still holding on, a few scrappy petals of red against the dry ground.

I am in the heart of Andalucía's olive growing region and no matter which direction you turn, you can see nothing but a green sea of olive groves. If you don't like olives you'll probably not enjoy this walk very much — but I love it. Olives and Living in Andalucía is a longer love letter to the grove if you want to know more.

Much of the land is coto privado de caza — private hunting ground — the signs nailed to the fence posts a reminder that this landscape has its own rules. And scrambling over those same walls and rocky outcrops, you'll find caperones: caperberries and buds growing wild in the campo, threading through the scrub and stone as they have done for centuries.

The route takes a little under an hour, which includes a stop at Frutas Mati on the way back for fresh vegetables. That day, Francisco had red and yellow peppers that were impossible to ignore — bright, vibrant things that practically winked at me from the display. I went home with a bag full and made something worth eating. Fried Potatoes, Peppers and Leeks is exactly the kind of thing that follows a walk like this.

And little did I know at the time that within five years I would be walking this same route with my two rescue greyhounds, Issy and Poppy.

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