I have never been quite so grateful for a thermos of tea as I was when we finally pulled into Thale after what can only be described as a journey of comedic misfortune. The satnav had taken us down a farm track somewhere near Quedlinburg, where my partner confidently announced we were on a "scenic shortcut." Three sheep, one very cross-looking farmer, and twenty minutes of reversing later, we emerged onto proper tarmac with our dignity somewhat dented and our suspension definitely so.

The cottage sat tucked beneath the limestone crags of the Bodetal valley, all timber framing and reassuring solidity. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and promptly dropped my phone into a puddle. Welcome to the Harz, I thought, fishing it out and pretending nothing had happened.

We had come for the walking, you see. Proper German walking, with boots that mean business and rucksacks containing more emergency supplies than a small hospital. The Harz Wanderadel had caught my imagination, that charming system of hiking stamps that turns a stroll into something approaching a pilgrimage. I had printed off routes, studied contour lines with the intensity of a military strategist, and packed three different waterproof jackets because one never knows.

The morning after arrival dawned grey and determined. We set off for the Hexentanzplatz, that legendary plateau where witches supposedly gather, though on this particular Tuesday it was mostly gathering low cloud and a persistent drizzle that the Met Office would diplomatically call "patchy." I had optimistically left the heavy waterproof in the car, bringing instead a light windbreaker that proved about as effective as a paper bag in a swimming pool. By the time we reached the viewpoint, I was conducting what my partner termed "a personal moisture survey" and he was trying not to laugh too visibly.

The view, when the clouds briefly parted, was magnificent. The Bode gorge plunged away beneath us, forests climbing the slopes in ranks of deep green. I stood there dripping and triumphant, feeling rather pleased with myself despite the squelching.

Day two brought what I can only describe as meteorological confusion. Sunshine by breakfast, hail by ten o'clock, and something suspiciously like sleet as we ascended toward the Rosstrappe. The legend says a princess leapt this gap on horseback to escape a giant. Standing there in horizontal rain, I rather felt I understood her desperation. We pressed on toward the Teufelsmauer, those extraordinary sandstone formations that look as though a giant has been playing at balancing rocks. The path became a stream became a minor river. My "breathable" walking trousers were breathing in rather more moisture than advertised.

There is something peculiarly British about this, I found myself reflecting, huddled in a shelter with a flask of coffee that was mostly sugar. We travel abroad specifically to experience different weather, then complain when it behaves exactly as it would at home. I had packed for alpine sunshine and crisp autumn mornings. The Harz had delivered something closer to a November afternoon in the Lake District, and somehow this felt like a personal betrayal.

Yet here is the curious thing. By day four, when the forecast finally stabilised into something approaching dryness, I almost missed the drama. We walked the Selke valley in conditions so perfect they felt borrowed from a brochure, and I caught myself thinking of that sodden scramble up to the Hexentanzplatz with something like affection. The mist had made the place mysterious. The rain had forced us to stop, to notice the moss on the forest floor, to talk to other damp hikers in a shared language of mild suffering.

On our final morning, I stood on the cottage terrace with a proper cup of tea, watching cloud shadows race across the opposite hillside. My boots were still drying in the porch, my phone had never quite recovered its former confidence, and I had collected precisely four hiking stamps rather than the ambitious dozen I had planned. It was, by every objective measure, a compromised sort of walking holiday.

I would not have changed a single squelching step of it.