I should have known the sat-nav was up to no good when it tried to send us through a vineyard. There we were, halfway down a dirt track near Saint-Sauveur-de-Cruzieres, Rhone-Alpes, my other half gripping the door handle like we were in a rally car and me pretending I had meant to take the scenic route all along. The vines looked lovely, mind you, but the chap pruning them did not look impressed. Three-point turn of shame, then back to civilisation.

We found the stone house eventually, tucked among oak trees with a terrace that practically begged for aperitifs. I had packed for what I assumed would be proper French sunshine. The Met Office app had shown a cheery yellow blob over the Ardeche. British optimism, that. Within twenty minutes of unloading the car, the sky turned the colour of a bruised plum and the rain came down like someone had tipped a bucket over our heads.

The next morning I woke to proper blue sky, the kind that makes you feel foolish for doubting. We set off for a walk to the nearby village, perhaps two miles through chestnut woodland. The path was marked with red and white stripes on the trees, very official, very French. I strode out in my new walking shoes feeling rather pleased with myself. My partner, sensibly, had brought a proper waterproof. I had not. Half an hour in, the heavens opened again. Not a gentle drizzle either. This was stair-rod stuff, the kind that finds every gap in your collar. We sheltered under a limestone overhang, me shivering and making jokes about "character building" while water dripped off my nose.

The weather here has a sense of humour, I am convinced. Bright and breezy by lunch, so we attempted another walk, this time down to the river. The Ardeche runs through these parts, though the local stretch is more gentle stream than dramatic gorge. We spotted a kingfisher, electric blue against the grey-green water, and I forgot entirely about being damp. Then the wind picked up, proper Mistral-style, sending my hat cartwheeling into a bush of thorny something-or-other. I retrieved it with dignity more or less intact, scratched hands and all.

By day three I had developed a system. Morning hike regardless of forecast, quick retreat for coffee and tartine when the sky turned, afternoon stroll when it cleared. The house had a covered terrace, mercifully, where I could sit with my feet up watching the weather perform its daily drama across the hills. The oak trees became my barometer. When the undersides of the leaves showed silver, rain followed within the hour. Old knowledge, that, from my grandmother, and I felt rather smug remembering it.

We did manage one proper long walk, setting out early for a circuit through the garrigue, that scratchy Mediterranean scrub that smells of rosemary and thyme when you brush against it. The path climbed steadily, giving views across the valley to distant limestone cliffs. I stopped every few minutes, ostensibly to admire the view, actually to catch my breath. The French do not seem to believe in switchbacks. Straight up, that is their method. Fair play to them.

The weather held, miracle of miracles, until we were perhaps ten minutes from the house. Then it simply tipped down again, as if saving itself for maximum inconvenience. We arrived at the terrace looking like drowned rats, to find our neighbours, a Belgian couple, sipping wine and looking dry and amused. They raised their glasses. We raised our soggy eyebrows.

I have learned things on this holiday. Always pack the waterproof, even when the app lies. Walking shoes need breaking in before ambitious hikes. And the weather in the Rhone-Alpes, like much in life, does what it pleases regardless of your plans. There is something rather freeing in that, once you stop fighting it. I spent less time checking forecasts and more time watching the light change on the hills, deciding moment to moment whether to walk or wait.

On our final morning, the oak trees were still. We walked to the bakery in the village, the proper one with the ancient wood-fired oven, and ate warm croissants on the terrace as the sun climbed. My shoes were finally dry. My waterproof, purchased in haste from a local supermarket, hung ready in the hall. I had become, I realised, a person who checks the sky instead of the screen, who walks when the walking is good and shelters when it is not. Not a bad lesson from a week of French weather and English stubbornness.