I have never been quite so grateful for a pair of wellies in all my life, and I say that as someone who once wore flip-flops to a wedding in the Lake District. The journey to our little place in Plouguerneau had been going so well, right up until the point where I confidently directed my other half down what I insisted was a "scenic shortcut" through the lanes of northern Finistere. Forty minutes later, we were nose-to-nose with a very unimpressed Breton farmer and his even less impressed flock of sheep. Turns out my French extends barely to ordering a croissant, and my map-reading skills had failed to account for roads that simply become someone's driveway without warning. We reversed in what I can only describe as a series of increasingly panicked three-point turns, the sheep watching in silent judgment.

By the time we found the proper road and pulled up at the stone cottage, I was ready to abandon the whole walking holiday and spend the week drinking cider in the garden. But then the clouds parted for exactly six and a half minutes, the late afternoon sun hit the granite walls, and I could see the coastal path glinting beyond the fields. Properly spectacular, that first glimpse. I grabbed my boots before the weather could change its mind.

It did, of course. We woke the next morning to what the Meteo France app cheerfully described as "brumes et pluies fines" - basically, being inside a damp cloud. Still, we are British. A bit of drizzle never stopped anyone, except apparently every single other walker in the area. The coastal path from Plouguerneau towards the Vierge Island lighthouse was entirely ours, which felt rather magnificent until the horizontal rain started and I discovered my so-called waterproof jacket had the protective qualities of a teabag. We squelched along, laughing like lunatics, watching the tide throw itself against the rocky inlets. The lighthouse emerged from the grey like a ghost, then vanished again. We took a photo that looks like someone smeared vaseline on the lens and called it art.

Day three brought proper sunshine, the sort that makes you forgive everything. We set off towards the Aber Wrac'h estuary with sandwiches and unreasonable optimism. The path wound through gorse and bracken, past little coves where fishermen had left their boats tilted on the stones. I felt genuinely smug about my walking prowess, my fitness, my connection with nature. Then I tried to hop across a stream, slipped on a rock greener than my face, and sat down in six inches of very cold water. My other half helpfully filmed the whole thing for posterity. We walked the remaining three miles with me steaming gently and occasionally squelching. The sandwiches tasted of triumph and humiliation in roughly equal measure.

The weather turned again that evening, as it does in Brittany, without warning or apology. We spent the next day doing a shorter loop from the village itself, through lanes lined with hydrangeas that looked almost neon against the grey sky. Every Brit abroad thinks they understand changeable weather, but there is something particularly theatrical about Breton skies, the speed with which they shift from benevolent to biblical. We were rained on, dried out, rained on again, then suddenly too warm in our coats. I stopped bothering to do mine up. There is a peculiar freedom in accepting you will be damp regardless.

By the final day, I had abandoned all pretence of meteorological strategy. We walked to the local beach in whatever we were wearing, got caught in a squall, sheltered behind a dune with a flask of coffee, and watched a heron stand perfectly still in the shallows as if the weather were merely a minor inconvenience. I thought about my shortcut disaster, my soaked trousers, my failed waterproof. I thought about how I would remember this more fondly than any perfect sunny holiday, how the mishaps had become the story, how walking in uncertain weather strips away something performative and leaves you simply present, slightly uncomfortable, and strangely content.

We drove home with the heating on full blast, my boots steaming quietly on the back seat, already planning which walks we would attempt when we came back. I will check the map more carefully next time. Probably.