I had convinced myself that driving to Burg Reuland would be the scenic option, the romantic choice, the sort of journey where you spot a heron and feel smug about your life decisions. What I actually spotted was a diversion sign near Liege that sent me down a lane barely wide enough for a determined cyclist, let alone my overpacked hatchback. Three-point turns became seventeen-point turns. A local chap walking his dog paused to watch, and I am fairly certain he was placing bets with himself about whether I would end up in the ditch. I did not, but only just.

By the time I reached the property, my hands were welded to the steering wheel and my passenger seat held the scattered remains of a sandwich I had attempted to eat during a particularly aggressive roundabout. The castle sat there looking impossibly fairytale-like, all stone and proper history, while I arrived looking like someone who had lost a minor argument with a map.

The first thing that struck me, once I had stopped vibrating with travel stress, was the quiet. Not the polite hush of a library, but the deep, settled silence of a place that has been standing still for centuries while the world hurried past. The Ardennes countryside rolled out in every direction, green and patient, and I felt that peculiar mix of peace and inadequacy that comes from realising your inner monologue is rather louder than you thought.

I had grand plans, of course. Grand walking plans. I had packed boots with serious tread and a waterproof jacket that claimed to be expedition-ready. The following morning I set out full of purpose, following a trail that wound up through woodland behind the village. The path climbed steadily, and I found myself in that happy rhythm of walking where your thoughts loosen and your legs do the thinking. The views opened up across the Ourthe valley, and I may have said "blimey" out loud to absolutely no one.

Then the weather arrived. Not gradually, not politely, but with the sudden enthusiasm of a dog that has spotted a squirrel. One moment I was admiring wildflowers; the next I was in a cloudburst so thorough that my expedition-ready jacket surrendered within minutes. I squelched back down the track, water running out of my sleeves, discovering in the process that my so-called walking trousers were in fact excellent at channeling water directly into my boots.

The next day I tried again, because British stubbornness dies hard. The forecast said clearing skies, which in my experience means "clearing somewhere, possibly Portugal." I chose a lower route, following the river through the valley, reasoning that I could not get more soaked than I already had been. This proved technically true but spiritually false. A fine, persistent drizzle settled in, the sort that does not bother with drama but simply outlasts you. I walked for two hours beneath grey skies that never quite committed to either rain or brightness, passing through small woods where the leaves hung heavy and the path grew slick with fallen chestnuts.

By the third morning I had developed what I can only describe as a weather-based paranoia. I stood at the window with my coffee, squinting at clouds and making pronouncements like "that one's got intent." When the sun finally broke through around midday, I practically sprinted for the door, boots still damp, determined to make the most of whatever mercy the sky was offering.

I took the ridge path south of the village, climbing through beech woodland that smelled of wet earth and autumn coming. The light fell in patches through the canopy, and for perhaps two glorious hours I had the sort of walk I had imagined: dry, golden, views stretching across to Germany on one side and the deeper Ardennes on the other. I found a bench, somewhat miraculously, and sat there feeling insufferably pleased with myself until I noticed the next bank of grey massing on the horizon.

I walked faster on the return, naturally. The first drops caught me perhaps half a mile from the castle, and I arrived at the door with that particular British combination of dampness and defiance, the kind that says "I enjoyed that, actually, and I refuse to admit otherwise."

The evenings, at least, were dry and warm inside those thick stone walls. I learned to appreciate the rhythm of the place: early walks, weather watchfulness, the retreat to comfort when the skies turned. It is not the holiday I had scripted in my head, all crisp mornings and panoramic ridge walks. It was messier, wetter, more interrupted. But sitting by the window on my final evening, watching rain streak the glass while the wood burner did its work, I felt something shift. The walking had mattered, even the soggy bits, perhaps especially those. The landscape here does not perform on demand. It simply is, and you adjust your stride accordingly.

I left my boots outside the door that last night, still not quite dry, and packed my expedition jacket with something approaching affection. We had been through something together, that jacket and I. Something involving rather more water than strictly necessary, and a small measure of grace found somewhere between a downpour and the decision to keep walking anyway.