I had been looking forward to our gite break in Henoville for weeks, so naturally I spent the entire drive from Calais convincing myself I'd forgotten something vital. Turns out I had: the ability to read a satnav properly. We ended up doing three laps of a beetroot field near Saint-Omer before I admitted my phone had been in aeroplane mode since Dover. My wife found this hilarious. I found it less so, particularly when a local farmer waved at us for the third time with what I can only describe as deeply French scepticism.

The gite itself appeared eventually, tucked down a lane where the Nord-Pas-de-Calais flatlands meet proper agricultural countryside. First impressions? Quiet. The sort of quiet that makes you realise how much noise your own brain usually makes. Our host had left the key under a terracotta pot that weighed roughly the same as a small car, plus a bottle of local beer that I opened within approximately ninety seconds of arrival.

We had grand plans for walking, you see. I'd packed Ordnance Survey equivalents, proper boots, even one of those khaki hats with the flap at the back. The first morning dawned grey but dry, so we set off toward the nearby marshlands, those flat water meadows that characterise this corner of France. Within forty minutes, the drizzle started. Not dramatic rain, mind you. That persistent, soaking drizzle that the British recognise immediately as "home from home." My expensive breathable jacket proved it was breathable by letting everything in.

By lunchtime we were damp in places I didn't know could get damp. We retreated to a cafe in Saint-Omer, huddled over coffee that tasted of salvation, watching the weather perform what I can only describe as performance art. Sun! Rain! Wind! All three simultaneously, which I believe meteorologists call "a Tuesday."

The afternoon brought what my wife optimistically termed "a window." We marched toward the Aa river valley with the determined expressions of people who refuse to admit defeat. The window slammed shut approximately twelve minutes later. We sheltered in a stand of poplars, watching our reflections multiply in the puddles, and I had one of those moments of gentle self-reflection that holidays sometimes permit. Here I was, middle-aged, slightly soggy, pursuing an idea of outdoor adventure that clearly wasn't cooperating. Was I actually enjoying this, or just performing enjoyment for some imagined audience of rugged hikers? The poplars didn't answer. They're not that kind of tree.

Day two, we adapted. Shorter walks, checked forecasts obsessively, embraced the concept of "atmospheric." The Marais Audomarois, that extraordinary marshland near Saint-Omer, became our damp companion. We walked raised paths between waterways, watched herons stand with more patience than I'll ever possess, and learned that "waterproof" trousers have definite time limits. When the rain came, we leaned into it. There's something peculiarly satisfying about being properly equipped for being improperly equipped, if you follow.

By day three, I'd abandoned the khaki hat. We walked the lanes around Henoville itself, those straight agricultural roads lined with pollarded willows, watching the weather approach across flat fields like a theatrical curtain. You can see it coming for miles here. No surprises, just gradual, damp inevitability. We waved at the same farmer, now apparently accepting us as permanent local colour.

The gite became our sanctuary. We'd return with steaming boots, brew tea with the intensity of ritual, and plan tomorrow's route with the optimistic delusion that defines the British walker abroad. Sometimes the plans worked. Often they didn't. We walked in mist that reduced visibility to arm's length, in sudden sunshine that steamed the previous damp from our jackets, in wind that came from Belgium with apparent personal grievance.

On our final morning, we attempted one last proper hike toward the nature reserve at Helfaut. The weather, perhaps sensing departure, offered something approaching cooperation. We walked for two hours in merely "overcast," which felt practically Mediterranean by then. A kingfisher flashed across a drainage channel. My wife took seventeen photographs of essentially the same reed. I didn't complain. I'd learned something, I think, about the difference between the walk you plan and the walk you get, and how the second one often stays with you longer.

We drove back to Calais with the boots in a plastic bag, the khaki hat abandoned in the gite's lost property, and a shared vocabulary of damp that only we fully understood. The farmer waved us off, finally, I like to think, with something approaching respect.