I have never been so grateful for a thermos of tea in my entire life, and that includes the time I ran the London Marathon in a hailstorm. The drive to our Somme Leuze cottage in Namur had been going so well, right up until the moment I confidently directed my husband down what I insisted was a shortcut. It was, in fact, a farm track that deposited us in a field of extremely unimpressed Belgian cows. My phone had no signal, my pride was in tatters, and the satnav woman had gone ominously silent, presumably judging me from her satellite perch.

We eventually found the proper road, though I will maintain until my dying day that those cows gave us dirty looks. The cottage itself sits in the rolling countryside just outside Namur proper, surrounded by woodland and the sort of views that make you forgive a great deal of navigational incompetence. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and immediately felt the first fat drop of rain hit my forehead. Classic.

The Somme Leuze is one of those stone-built properties that looks like it has been there forever, all weathered walls and sensible shutters. Inside it was warm and welcoming, with a wood burner that I mentally bookmarked for later. But first, we had plans. I had packed my walking boots with the enthusiasm of someone who owns proper kit and therefore assumes expertise. The Ardennes foothills were calling, or at least the local footpaths were, and I was determined to answer.

The weather had other ideas. We set off for a gentle circuit towards the nearby village, map in hand and waterproofs optimistically tied round our waists. Within twenty minutes the sky had turned the colour of a bruise and the rain came down with what I can only describe as personal animosity. My husband, who has the waterproofing instincts of a duck, simply pulled up his hood and marched on. I, meanwhile, discovered that my supposedly breathable jacket had the breathability of a plastic bag. We squelched back to the cottage looking like contestants on one of those survival programmes where nobody wins.

Day two dawned grey but dry, and I declared it a fresh start. The Meuse Valley paths were meant to be spectacular, winding along the river with views up to the citadel. We made it perhaps half a mile before the drizzle set in, that particular sort of persistent Belgian damp that seeps into your bones and your optimism simultaneously. I found myself having a small existential crisis on a bench overlooking the water, wondering why I had ever believed April was a sensible month for walking holidays. A heron watched me from the riverbank with what felt like profound disappointment.

By day three I had adapted, as Brits must. I embraced the wet, the mud, the general atmospheric misery. We walked through forests where the rain filtered through the canopy in a fine mist, proper fairy-tale stuff if fairies wore Gore-Tex. The paths around the property connect to a network of local trails, some marked for hiking, others that appear to exist purely to test your willingness to climb over styles. My boots developed a squeak that became a sort of companion, a rhythmic reminder of my own stubbornness.

There was a moment, climbing a wooded ridge with rain running down my neck, when I stopped to catch my breath and actually laughed. The valley below was half-hidden in cloud, the trees glistened, and somewhere a woodpecker was doing its thing. I was soaked, slightly lost, and happier than I had been in months. There is something about British-adjacent weather misery that feels like home, even when you are technically abroad.

We did manage one properly dry afternoon, striding out towards the village of Somme-Leuze itself with actual sunshine and everything. I bought cheese from a local shop and felt insufferably smug about my outdoor lifestyle. The feeling lasted until the return journey, when I slipped on a wet leaf and sat down heavily in a puddle. My husband helped me up, trying not to laugh, and I limped back to the cottage with dignity in ruins but cheese intact.

The wood burner earned its keep that evening. I sat in dry clothes with a local beer, feet up, listening to the rain against the windows and feeling rather pleased with myself. The Somme Leuze cottage had become a refuge, a place to dry out and plan tomorrow's probably ill-advised expedition. I had started the week thinking I would conquer the Belgian countryside with my excellent walking skills and proper equipment. I ended it understanding that the countryside conquers you, gently, with rain and mud and the occasional cow-related detour, and that the best you can do is bring a decent thermos and learn to laugh at yourself.