I have never been so relieved to see a wooden shed in my life.

The journey to our Ledro in Tyrol had been going so well until we reached the final five miles. Satnav abandoned us somewhere near Mezzolago, leaving us circling Lake Ledro like confused gulls. My partner, ever the optimist, insisted we "follow our instincts." My instincts said we were lost. My instincts were correct. We finally spotted the property down a gravel track, just as the hire car's front left tyre announced its retirement with a theatrical hiss.

There we stood, two Brits in the Austrian Alps, surrounded by pine trees and our own mild panic. I rang the local contact while my other half performed an elaborate pantomime of checking a tyre he had no intention of changing. The shed, it turned out, housed the key safe. I have never appreciated a wooden structure more.

The Ledro itself was worth every moment of tyre-related stress. A traditional Tyrolean property with wooden balconies that creaked pleasantly underfoot and views that made me forget I had planned to complain about the drive. We dumped our bags and did what any self-respecting British holidaymaker does first: stepped outside to assess the weather situation.

I had packed for every eventuality, which is to say I had packed badly. Four waterproof jackets, two sun hats, and a pair of walking boots I had owned since university and never quite broken in. The sky above the mountains was doing that thing where it cannot decide between brilliant sunshine and imminent downpour. We gambled on a walk.

The path from Ledro towards Mezzolago starts gently enough, winding through meadows where the grass seems impossibly green compared to anything back home. We passed an elderly Austrian couple who nodded at us with the knowing sympathy of people who had checked the forecast properly. Within twenty minutes, the clouds closed in like curtains at a bad play.

Rain in Tyrol does not mess about. It arrives with purpose. We scrambled for shelter under a pine tree that offered roughly the protection of a colander, laughing at our own unpreparedness while water found its way down every supposedly waterproof seam. My university boots, it transpired, had finally broken in. They had also broken down. I could feel Lake Ledro forming inside my left sock.

We squelched back to the Ledro, defeated but oddly cheerful. There is something about Alpine rain that feels dramatic rather than merely depressing, unlike the drizzle that greets you at Gatwick. We changed, made terrible coffee with the machine provided, and stood on that creaking balcony watching the weather perform its second act. The clouds parted. Steam rose from the wet meadows. The mountains reappeared, freshly washed and showing off.

The next morning, properly chastened, we consulted the local weather board in Mezzolago like pilgrims seeking divine guidance. Sunshine until two, storms by four. We set off for the Ponale path with renewed purpose and actual waterproof trousers, marching at a pace that would have embarrassed us both had anyone been watching.

The walking around Lake Ledro is spectacular in that slightly intimidating way that reminds you the Alps are not ornamental. The paths climb through chestnut woods, open onto views of the lake's impossible turquoise, then plunge you back into shade where the air smells of pine resin and damp earth. We made it to the Rifugio viewpoint by half past one, smug with our timing, only to watch a wall of grey advance from the direction we had come.

We ran the last mile like characters from a farce, waterproof trousers rustling with every stride, reaching the Ledro's gravel track precisely as the first drops fell. There we stood, two Brits in the Austrian Alps, surrounded by pine trees and our own mild triumph. The boots were beyond saving. The holiday was not.