I had convinced myself that driving from Limoges airport to Sarlat-la-Caneda would be straightforward. Three hours, give or take, through the Dordogne's winding roads. What I had not accounted for was my spectacular inability to operate a French petrol pump, which added a solid forty-five minutes of standing in drizzle at a deserted station, jabbing buttons and muttering apologies to a machine that remained stubbornly unimpressed. By the time I reached the stone cottage on the outskirts of town, I was three hours behind schedule, smelling faintly of diesel, and ready to weep with gratitude at the sight of its honey-coloured walls.

The property sat at the end of a rutted track, surrounded by walnut trees that swayed ominously in the gathering wind. I had packed for late spring walking: light waterproof, decent boots, optimistic attitude. The forecast had promised "variable conditions," which any Briton knows translates to "prepare for everything." I dumped my bags, pulled on my jacket, and set off immediately for a late afternoon loop towards the village of Sainte-Nathalene, determined to salvage something from the day.

The path began prettily enough, a chalky trail through meadows still dotted with cowslips. Within twenty minutes, the sky had curdled from grey to something more vindictive. The first proper drops fell as I reached a wooded section, and I congratulated myself on my foresight in bringing the waterproof. Then the rain began in earnest, the sort of sustained, soaking downpour that finds every gap in your defences. My "showerproof" jacket surrendered within minutes. Water trickled down my neck, pooled in my boots, and transformed the path into a slippery morass of clay and fallen leaves.

I pressed on, because that is what we do, isn't it? British walkers are nothing if not stubborn. The route climbed gradually through oak woodland, and I told myself the effort would keep me warm. It did not. By the time I reached a clearing with a view back towards Sarlat's distant rooftops, I was shivering violently and could no longer feel my toes. The vista, I am certain, was magnificent. I saw approximately none of it through the sheets of rain and my own steaming breath.

The descent was worse. What had been a manageable path became a stream, then a minor torrent. I slipped twice, caught myself on branches, and acquired a spectacular mud stripe across my backside that would become my signature look for the remainder of the trip. I arrived back at the cottage after dark, having missed a turning and added an unintended extra mile through a field of equally disgruntled-looking Limousin cattle.

The heating took an age to warm the stone interior. I stood in the kitchen in my underwear, draping sodden clothes over every available surface, and ate an entire baguette with butter and local walnuts because I lacked the energy for anything more ambitious. The rain lashed against the shutters with what felt like personal animosity.

Morning brought weak sunshine and the sort of brittle, breezy freshness that follows a storm. I studied my walking maps over coffee, recalculating. The forecast remained unsettled, and I am old enough now to recognise when the weather is winning. I chose a shorter, lower route along the valley floor, keeping closer to the village, prepared to retreat at the first sign of trouble.

This proved wise. The morning held, and I walked through damp meadows where the recent rain had brought out frogs in improbable numbers. But by midday, darkening clouds sent me hurrying back. I spent the afternoon in Sarlat itself, wandering the medieval lanes between showers, ducking into a cave for wine tasting when the heavens opened again, emerging when they paused, playing this game of meteorological grandmother's footsteps.

The pattern established itself over the following days. Walk early, walk low, carry everything. The British weather I had travelled six hundred miles to escape had followed me, or perhaps I had brought it in my luggage like a stubborn crease in a shirt. I became expert at reading the sky, at detecting the particular quality of wind that presaged a soaking. My boots never properly dried. My waterproof trousers, purchased in a moment of grim realism after that first day, became my most valued possession.

On my final morning, I attempted a longer circuit to a nearby viewpoint, the sort of walk I had originally planned as the centrepiece of my trip. The sky was the colour of a dirty dishcloth, but it held. I climbed through dripping woodland, emerged onto a limestone plateau, and finally, finally, was rewarded. The Dordogne valley stretched below, mist rising from the river, the honey-stone villages dotted through green hills that rolled away to every horizon. I stood there for twenty minutes, damp, slightly chapped, utterly content. Then I felt the first spatter of renewed rain on my face, turned, and began the brisk walk back, already smiling at the ridiculousness of it all. Some holidays give you perfect weather. Others give you better stories.