I have never been so grateful for a wonky sat-nav in my life. There we were, my other half and I, crawling along the coastal road from Rijeka Airport in our hire car, convinced we were minutes from our Crikvenica Smrika apartment, when the thing decided we needed a tour of every olive grove between Opatija and the Kvarner Bay. Two hours of "recalculating" later, we finally spotted the sign for Smrika, and I may have let out a small cheer that was definitely not dignified.

The apartment itself was one of those proper Croatian stone affairs, all terracotta roofs and shutters that actually shut, perched on a hillside with a view of the bay that made the sat-nav fiasco feel like fate rather than incompetence. I bounded out of the car, stretched my legs, and announced with the confidence of someone who had done absolutely no research that we would spend the entire week walking the coastal paths, storm or shine. The owner, a lovely woman called Marija, smiled in that particular way locals do when British tourists make bold declarations about the weather. "Bring good boots," she said. I laughed. I had trainers. Proper ones, from a reputable shop. What more could anyone need?

The first morning dawned bright and almost insultingly beautiful. We set off for the walk to Crikvenica town, a gentle three-mile stroll along the promenade that the guidebook promised would take an hour. It took us nearly three, because I kept stopping to photograph every fishing boat, every cat sunning itself on a wall, every stray bougainvillea that had clearly never been told it was meant to be a garden plant. The sea was that impossible Adriatic blue, the kind that makes you suspicious of filters even when you are looking directly at it. I felt smug. This was living. This was why we had come.

The smugness lasted precisely until day three.

I woke to grey skies and a wind that sounded like someone had left a giant hairdryer on outside our window. "Still going?" my other half asked, peering at me over his coffee. I had made a vow. I was not going to be the sort of person whose holiday plans dissolved at the first hint of meteorological inconvenience. I pulled on my trainers, grabbed a waterproof that I now suspect was actually just a windbreaker with delusions of grandeur, and marched us out the door.

The coastal path to Dramalj, a little village maybe two miles along, was a different creature entirely. Where before there had been gentle breezes and the smell of pine, now there were waves smashing against the rocks with what I can only describe as personal animosity. My "waterproof" surrendered within minutes. The path, which had seemed so civilised in sunshine, became slick with spray and what I desperately hoped was just rainwater. At one point a gust caught me so squarely that I genuinely stumbled sideways, arms windmilling, and only avoided an unplanned swim because my other half grabbed my elbow with the urgency of someone preventing public humiliation.

We made it to Dramalj, found a cafe, and sat steaming gently while an elderly Croatian man at the next table regarded us with what I choose to believe was admiration rather than pity. "English?" he asked. We nodded. He laughed, said something to the waiter, and two rakijas appeared. "For warming," he said. I have never been so grateful for plum brandy in my life.

The rain did not stop. It paused, occasionally, in that teasing way that convinced us to set out again before resuming with renewed enthusiasm. We attempted the walk to Jadranovo the following day, got halfway, and retreated to the apartment where I spent an hour staring at my sodden trainers and contemplating the fundamental dishonesty of weather apps. My other half, who has the patience of a saint and the waterproof jacket of someone who actually reads product descriptions, suggested we simply walk locally, explore the lanes around Smrika itself, accept that not every hike needs a destination.

It was the best suggestion of the holiday. We wandered olive groves that became ours alone in the drizzle, discovered a tiny chapel I would never have noticed from the main road, found a konoba where we ate prsut and cheese and listened to the owner complain about the weather in a way that made me feel genuinely Croatian. The walking became slower, more watchful. I stopped trying to conquer the coastline and started noticing how the bay changed colour with each shift in the clouds, how the fishing boats looked almost theatrical against grey water, how the rain brought out scents of thyme and salt and wet stone that sunshine had hidden.

On our final morning the skies cleared. We did manage one last proper walk, down to Crikvenica and back, and it was lovely in the obvious, Instagrammable way I had originally wanted. But I think I preferred the rainy days, if I am honest with myself. There is something about being slightly ridiculous, slightly unprepared, slightly at the mercy of forces you cannot control, that strips away the performance of holiday-making and leaves you with something more honest. My trainers never recovered, by the way. They sit in our cupboard now, slightly misshapen, smelling faintly of the Adriatic, a reminder that the best walks are sometimes the ones you did not plan and definitely did not dress for.