I have never been so relieved to see a bungalow in my entire life. After six hours of driving from Calais, a wrong turn somewhere near Hanover that added an extra forty-five minutes, and a spectacular argument with my sat nav that ended with me threatening to throw it out the window, we finally pulled up at our little place in Thale. The mishap, though? I had somehow managed to pack three left wellies and not a single right one. My partner found this absolutely hilarious until it started drizzling approximately seven minutes after we arrived.

The Harz has this wonderful habit of making you feel properly small, and I do not just mean because I had forgotten half my sensible footwear. The hills rise up around Thale like they are keeping an eye on you, all dark forests and sudden sweeping views. Our bungalow sat in that perfect spot where you could step out the door and be on a proper walking path within about thirty seconds, which was fortunate because my entire plan for this holiday revolved around striding about looking rugged and knowledgeable about nature. The reality, as ever, was rather different.

I had checked the forecast obsessively before we left. British weather apps, German weather apps, one slightly questionable website that appeared to be run by a man in a shed in Bavaria. They all agreed: dry, mild, perfect walking conditions. What I had failed to account for was the Harz's own microclimate, which appears to operate on pure mischief. The first morning dawned grey but promising, so I set off up toward the Rosstrappe feeling terribly pleased with myself in my one remaining pair of decent trainers. By the time I had gone half a mile, the fog had rolled in so thick I could barely see my own feet. I stood there on the path, suddenly aware that I had no idea which way was forward and which way was back, and had a moment of genuine reflection about how often I charge into things without adequate preparation. The metaphor was not lost on me, standing in German fog with questionable footwear and an overinflated sense of my own navigation skills.

The weather became our constant companion and occasional adversary over the next few days. We would set out in sunshine, get caught in a sudden downpour that lasted exactly twelve minutes, then enjoy a rainbow so vivid it looked almost aggressive. I borrowed a pair of my partner's walking boots, which were two sizes too big and gave me a blister in a place I did not know could blister. We developed a system: check the sky in all directions, pack every waterproof item we owned, then set off with the resigned air of people who know nature is probably going to win.

The walking itself was magnificent when the clouds permitted. The Bodetal gorge, just down from Thale, with its towering cliffs and that river rushing through, made me feel like I had wandered into something from a fairy tale. The Germans, I noticed, do not let weather stop them. They march past in their proper gear, nodding politely at my borrowed boots and my increasingly bedraggled appearance. I started to understand the appeal of this rhythm: walk, get wet, dry off, walk again, laugh about it later with a cup of tea and the heating on.

By our final day, I had accepted that my plans for long, dry ridge walks were not to be. Instead we did shorter loops, darting back to the bungalow when the skies opened, then venturing out again with the optimism of people who have learned nothing whatsoever. I stood on one particularly windswept viewpoint, properly soaked through for the third time that morning, and felt genuinely happy. There is something about the Harz that strips away your pretensions, quite literally in my case with the failed wellies and the oversized boots. You walk, you get weathered upon, you keep going.

I left with a blister, a new respect for German meteorological mischief, and a firm resolution to check my packing more carefully next time.