As most of Spain was lashed by “las tormentas” last week, one tucked-away corner of the peninsula remained blithely sunny and springlike. Where else than Almeria, one of Spain’s driest regions. Check out the weather stats and you’ll see you can expect just 3 days of rain in March. In June, July and August it’s down to zero days.

The intensity of the light really hits you as you get off the plane at Almeria’s pocket-sized airport. Lying closer to Algeria than Marbella, and nearer Tangier than Madrid, this is an enchanting city of deep blue skies, brightly coloured facades and flat red roofs.

Charmingly rough round the edges, Almeria is firmly off the package holiday trail – and that’s what makes it appealing. So no English tourist menus, no chicken nugget meals, no poolside bingo, just a Spanish city going about its everyday business. “What brings you here?” was a question I was frequently asked during my week-long stay. “Are you here for work?”

As it happened I sort of was. As a freelance writer I can work pretty much anywhere, so I’d packed my laptop and was doing a few hours’ work every evening to keep the financial taps on. It certainly paid for the accommodation – my well-equipped apartment a 5-minute walk from the historical centre cost just £33 a night.

But the main reason for my stay was to spend a week walking and exploring in the glorious sunshine after a long grey English winter. So on the first afternoon I started off by wandering through the old town, enjoying the glorious views from the Alcazaba and strolling around the atmospheric neighbourhood of cottages and alleys beneath it.

On day 2 I took the bus out to Tabernas, half an hour north of Almeria, and did a 4-hour trek through the stunning desert landscape to the sleepy little town of Gador. The only people I encountered on my hike were a Belgian couple who were standing at a fork in the path consulting a map. After helping them out I was back on my own again, picking my way along parched dry river beds. For lunch I sat on a rock, unpacked a sandwich and drank in the emptiness. It’s an unforgettably barren terrain.

Later in the week, again under clear blue skies, I took the morning bus out to San Jose and hiked from that likeable little resort across the magnificent Cabo de Gata Natural Park. First there was the beautifully deserted Playa de los Genoveses, where a long-haired and free-spirited middle-aged man had pitched a tent and was lying smiling on the beach.

Next it was on to the mysteriously dark sands of Playa de Monsul. Again there was barely another soul in sight on this glorious day in the second week of March. As the trail wound its way between the sandy dunes and rocky hills there was a magical sense of wallowing in the luxury of silence.

Then it was onwards and upwards along an exhilaratingly windswept coastal track to the headland, and back down again to the little coastal village of Las Salinas. This was pure therapy. A sun-starved Northern European gently massaged by the sea breeze in a land of longer days and dazzling light. And I came back to London relaxed, revived and full of colour.