I have never been so grateful for a badly packed rucksack in all my life. There we were, my partner and I, trundling down the A1 towards Zadar airport with our walking boots proudly packed at the bottom of our cases, smug in the knowledge that we were about to conquer the Dalmatian coast on foot. What we had not accounted for was the British weather following us halfway across Europe, or my decision to wear a brand new pair of trainers for the journey. By the time we collected our hire car and started the hour's drive south to Vodice, I had developed a blister the size of a five kuna coin and a grump that could have curdled the local goat's cheese.

The approach to our holiday home did wonders for my mood, I must admit. Winding through olive groves and past stone walls that looked older than my grandmother's recipe book, we finally spotted the place up a modest track just outside the town centre. I had chosen it partly for the terrace with its sea view, and partly because the listing mentioned it was within walking distance of both town and trails. Walking distance, I thought. Perfect for walkers. How hard could it be?

Famous last words, as my mother would say.

We arrived in late afternoon, that golden hour when the light turns everything honey-coloured and even the lizards look picturesque. I hobbled onto the terrace with a glass of the local white wine, determined to appreciate the view despite my throbbing foot. The islands scattered across the bay looked close enough to touch. A path wound down towards the shoreline. I could see the Makirina peninsula stretching out to the west, all rocky coves and scrubby pines, practically begging to be explored. My boots sat in the bedroom like patient soldiers, and I made grand plans for the morning. Sunrise hike, perhaps? A bracing walk before breakfast?

The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

I woke to the sound of rain. Not the polite British drizzle I knew so well, but a proper Mediterranean downpour, the kind that bounces off terracotta roofs and turns dry stream beds into temporary rivers. I lay in bed listening to it, telling myself it would pass. By ten o'clock it had settled into a steady, determined soak. By midday I had read half a novel and eaten most of a packet of biscuits I had optimistically labelled 'emergency hiking snacks.'

We made a run for it in the afternoon, literally, hoods up, heading towards the town centre to stretch our legs and find a proper meal. Vodice in the rain is a different creature entirely. The waterfront promenade, which I imagined would normally bustle with ice cream queues and boat trip touts, had a windswept, end-of-season melancholy. We found shelter in a konoba near the marina, where the waiter seemed genuinely surprised to see anyone walking voluntarily in such conditions. He recommended the peka, slow-cooked under a bell lid, and we ate watching rain streak the windows while fishing boats bobbed miserably at their moorings.

The next morning brought no improvement. I stood on the terrace in my waterproof, which I had packed with typical British pessimism, and watched clouds roll in from the sea like a grey duvet being pulled across the sky. My partner suggested we attempt the coastal path anyway, a route I had researched that supposedly followed the shoreline east towards Tribunj. I agreed with the enthusiasm of someone who has never tried to navigate limestone rocks in wet conditions.

We turned back after twenty minutes. The path, I discovered, becomes less a path and more a suggestion when saturated. My blister had healed enough for walking, but my pride took a battering as I slid gracelessly down a slope and caught myself on a rosemary bush. The scent followed us back to the house, clinging to my jacket like nature's own mocking commentary on our failed expedition.

By day three, something shifted. Not the weather, which remained stubbornly British in its temperament, but my attitude. We began shorter walks, opportunistic dashes between showers, exploring the immediate area around the property rather than pursuing grander ambitions. There was a small cove ten minutes down the track that we would never have discovered had we been striding purposefully towards more distant goals. We found wild asparagus growing among the rocks, and fig trees with fruit not quite ripe, and a tortoise who appeared utterly unbothered by meteorological conditions.

On our final morning, the sun finally broke through. I stood on that terrace with my coffee and watched the sea turn from grey to turquoise in the space of half an hour, the islands reappearing like stage scenery being winched into place. My boots remained unworn for anything more strenuous than a trip to the supermarket. My new trainers, now thoroughly battered, had proven themselves on slippery limestone and muddy tracks alike.

We packed the car in silence, both of us knowing we would return. The Makirina trails remained unexplored, the coastal path to Tribunj unconquered, a list of proper hikes still bookmarked on my phone. But I had learned something about the difference between planning a walking holiday and actually walking, about the weather's indifference to human schedules, and about finding smaller adventures when the grand ones refuse to cooperate. Also, I learned to always break in new trainers before flying to a foreign country. Some lessons, it seems, require a blister to truly stick.