I have never been so happy to see a petrol station in my life. Three hours into our drive from Nice Airport, convinced I was following the coastal route with the confidence of a man who had barely glanced at the map, I realised we were somewhere near Draguignan and very much not near Les Issambres. My partner sat in silence, the kind of silence that speaks volumes, while I performed an elaborate three-point turn in a layby barely wide enough for a scooter. The satnav, I should note, had been trying to tell me this for forty minutes. I had assumed it was being dramatic.

We finally rolled into Les Issambres as the afternoon light was turning that particular honey colour you only seem to get in Provence. Our holiday home sat on a hillside with a view of the bay that almost, almost made my navigational blunder worth it. Almost. The place had that lovely rustic feel, terracotta tiles underfoot and shutters that actually worked, which felt terribly authentic until I spent ten minutes wrestling with the one in the bedroom and concluded it was merely stuck. I chose to believe this added character.

The next morning I woke with the earnest intention of walking everywhere. This was to be a hiking holiday, a proper exploration of the coastal paths, a communion with nature. I had packed walking boots, two types of sun cream, and a hat with a flap at the back for neck protection. I was ready. The sky was that impossible Mediterranean blue, cloudless and smug, and I set off toward the Sentier du Littoral feeling rather pleased with myself.

The path from Les Issambres toward Saint-Aygulf winds along the coastline with proper dramatic flair, all rocky inlets and pine trees leaning at artistic angles. I marched along, nodding at fellow walkers with the camaraderie of the righteously active, pausing to examine wildflowers I could not identify and feeling profoundly at one with the landscape. The sea glittered. Lizards darted. I was practically Provencal.

By midday I had reached a small cove where locals were swimming, and I sat on a rock to eat my baguette with the smug satisfaction of a man who had earned his lunch through physical exertion. The weather, I noted with the wisdom of a seasoned traveller, was perfect. Perhaps too perfect. I should have recognised the hubris in this thought.

I woke the following morning to grey. Not dramatic grey, not interestingly atmospheric grey, but the sort of flat, persistent English-looking grey that makes you check your location in case you have sleepwalked back to Dorset. The mistral had arrived, that notorious wind, and with it came temperatures that made my walking shorts feel like a genuine error of judgment. I stood on the terrace in a t-shirt and the expression of a man betrayed, watching my neighbour walk past in a padded jacket with the resigned air of someone who understood Provencal weather better than I did.

I attempted the coastal path anyway, because I am British and this is what we do. The wind whipped the sea into something far less glittering and far more argumentative. My hat, that sensible neck-flap hat, blew off twice. The second time it skittered toward the cliff edge with what I can only describe as malicious intent, and I found myself crawling on hands and knees on wet limestone, retrieving it with the dignity of a man who has made poor life choices. A French couple passed above me on the path, said nothing, but their silence was different from my partner's. This was the silence of witnesses.

By afternoon the rain arrived, not heavily but with the kind of persistent commitment that soaks through supposedly waterproof jackets. I retreated to a cafe in the village, ordered a coffee I did not want, and sat watching the weather with the wounded expression of a man whose hiking ambitions had been personally insulted. The proprietor, perhaps sensing my plight, brought me a madeleine without my asking. It was the kindest gesture I have ever received from a stranger.

The following days became an elaborate negotiation with the elements. I walked in the mornings when the wind permitted, shorter stretches, more modest ambitions. The path toward Gaillarde beach, the loop around the vineyards above the village, careful routes that offered shelter when the mistral returned. I learned to read the sky with the anxious attention of a farmer, to pack layers with the fatalism of a Scout, to accept that my walking boots would not dry properly for the entire fortnight.

There was something in this adaptation, I gradually realised, that was rather more interesting than my original plan. The coves I reached on grey mornings had a different beauty, more secretive, the turquoise water turned deep green and mysterious. The vineyards in low cloud felt like walking through a watercolour, all soft edges and muted colours. I stopped trying to stride purposefully everywhere and began to notice things: the particular smell of wet pine, the way the village cats gathered on warm walls during brief sunny intervals, how the local fishermen seemed entirely unconcerned by weather that had me in four layers.

On our final morning the sun returned with theatrical abruptness, as if the previous week had been a practical joke. I walked one last time to my favourite rocky outcrop, sat with my legs dangling, and watched a sailboat struggle against the remaining wind. My neck-flap hat, now slightly misshapen from its cliff adventure, sat beside me. I felt fond of it in a way I had not expected.

We left Les Issambres with my walking boots still damp, my sun cream barely touched, and a collection of small stones from various beaches that my partner assured me were indistinguishable from one another. I disagreed, of course. Each one marked a particular walk, a particular weather, a particular moment of stubborn British persistence against Provencal unpredictability. I would not have had it otherwise, though I might have packed a proper waterproof. And listened to the satnav. And perhaps not crawled for my hat in front of witnesses. But otherwise, exactly as it was.