I have always believed that the journey is part of the holiday, though after our recent trip to Cavalaire-sur-Mer I am starting to think I might have been wrong about that. We had flown into Nice, picked up a hire car that smelled faintly of pastis and regret, and set off down the A8 with the sort of optimism that only a British person in possession of a printed map can muster. My partner was navigating. I should have known this would end badly.

Somewhere between Le Luc and Saint-Tropez, she announced with great confidence that we needed to take the next exit. We did so. The road became narrower, then unpaved, then essentially a goat track with delusions of grandeur. Our sensible Citroen was not built for this. At one point we passed an actual goat, which looked at us with what I can only describe as pity. Twenty minutes of increasingly tense silence later, we emerged onto a main road we recognised, having added forty minutes to a journey that was already quite long enough. I did not say "I told you so." I merely thought it, very loudly.

By the time we reached the property in Cavalaire-sur-Mer, I was in that peculiar British state of being simultaneously furious and desperate for a cup of tea. The villa sat among pines with a view down towards the bay, all terracotta and white walls and the sort of shutters that make you feel you ought to be wearing a striped shirt and carrying a baguette. It was, I had to admit, worth the goat track.

We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person would do: opened the wine we had bought at a supermarket somewhere near the airport, and sat on the terrace to plan our walking holiday. This was to be the point of the whole week. We had researched coastal paths, plotted routes through the Maures mountains, imagined ourselves as serious hikers striding through maquis-scented landscapes with the Mediterranean glinting below. I had packed proper boots, moisture-wicking socks, even one of those hats with a flap at the back for neck protection. I was ready.

The morning brought thick grey cloud and a wind that felt distinctly Channel-crossing rather than Cote d'Azur. We put on our waterproofs anyway, because that is what British people do, and set off for the sentier du littoral that runs west from Cavalaire towards Le Lavandou. Within twenty minutes it had begun to spit, then drizzle, then properly rain in that determined way that suggests it has nothing better to do. The path clings to rocky inlets and climbs through scrubby oak, and in sunshine I imagine it is spectacular. In our conditions it was merely spectacularly wet. We pressed on for an hour, telling each other it would clear up, until we reached a small cove where the waves were doing something violent and unprovoked. A French couple sat in their car watching us with expressions of mild concern. We waved, as if this were all perfectly normal, then turned around.

The following day we tried again, this time inland towards the Col de Belleroche, reasoning that mountain weather might be more forgiving than coastal. It was not. The mist came down so thickly that I genuinely worried we might walk straight into a tree, or off a cliff, or into some other feature that the ordnance survey map suggested was somewhere nearby but which had become entirely theoretical. We heard wild boar in the undergrowth, or at least I hope it was wild boar and not something larger and more opinionated. After ninety minutes of what I can only describe as damp blindness, we retreated to a bar in Cavalaire village and drank coffee with the sort of intensity usually reserved for medical emergencies.

By day three I had developed that particular British relationship with weather where one begins to take it personally. I stood on the terrace in my hiking trousers, watching rain run down the olive trees, feeling somehow betrayed. We had come to Provence. Provence was supposed to be sunny. This was not in the brochure of my imagination. My partner suggested we simply walk anyway, embracing the wet, becoming one with the elements. I reminded her that she was the one who had navigated us onto a goat track. She reminded me that I had packed three different types of waterproof. We were at an impasse.

What broke it, finally, was the realisation that we were being ridiculous in a very specific British way. We had travelled to a beautiful place and were sulking because it was not behaving like a postcard. On day four, with the rain still falling but our attitudes adjusted, we set off for a short loop through the vineyards above Cavalaire. The vines were heavy with grapes, the air smelled of wet earth and rosemary, and when the clouds parted briefly the sea appeared below us in a shade of blue that made my chest hurt. We got soaked again, obviously. But we also saw a hoopoe, that absurd pink bird with its ridiculous crest, bobbing through the rows of vines like something from a children's book.

The rest of the week continued in this pattern. Morning cloud, afternoon rain, occasional miraculous sunshine that sent us scrambling for our boots and rucksacks with the desperate energy of people who know their window is limited. We walked the coastal path on our final day in proper golden light, the sort that makes the pines look black against the sea, and passed the same cove where we had turned back in defeat. It was beautiful, and I was glad to see it, but I am not sure I would trade that first miserable attempt. There is something about British weather following you to Provence that forces a certain humility, a recognition that you cannot plan your way out of being human in a landscape.

We left our boots on the terrace to dry on the last morning. They were still wet when we packed them. I suspect they are wet still.