I should have known the Sat Nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through a field just outside Quedlinburg. There I was, humming along to a podcast about medieval witch trials, when suddenly the pleasant voice instructed me to "turn left onto unpaved road." The unpaved road, as it turned out, was a tractor track belonging to a very unimpressed local farmer who waved his arms with the kind of enthusiasm that transcends all language barriers. I reversed with the grace of a drunken crab and found the proper route to Thale, arriving at the holiday home with slightly more adrenaline than I'd planned for a Tuesday afternoon.

The place itself was proper lovely, though. A traditional Harz half-timbered affair with enough wood panelling to make you feel like you're living inside a particularly ambitious cuckoo clock. I dumped my bags with the triumphant exhaustion of someone who'd survived both the M1 and German rural navigation, then immediately did what every Brit abroad does: checked the weather app with the obsessive frequency of a farmer during harvest.

The forecast was classic British-in-Germany confusion. Sunshine, then showers, then something ominously described as "Bergwetter" which I later learned means mountain weather, which apparently translates to "all four seasons before lunch." I had packed for every eventuality, including a waterproof jacket so robust it could probably survive a dunking in the Bode River, and walking boots that had seen me through the Peak District's moodier moments.

Day one, I set out with the naive optimism of someone who'd only glanced at the forecast. The Hexentanzplatz trail beckoned, that famous plateau where witches allegedly gathered for their sabbaths. The path wound through beech forests so perfectly German they looked almost staged, all mossy boulders and dappled light. I was congratulating myself on my excellent planning when the sky performed its first betrayal. One moment, butterflies and birdsong; the next, hailstones the size of frozen peas bouncing off my hood with theatrical violence. I sheltered under a rock overhang like a disgruntled troll, eating my packed sandwich with the grim determination of someone who refuses to let weather ruin a good hike.

The hail passed, as these things do, and I continued upward. The views from the plateau were worth every frozen moment, the Bode Gorge spreading below like a geography textbook illustration. I could see the Rosstrappe rock formation in the distance, that curious hoof-shaped mark where, legend says, a princess leapt across the gorge on her horse to escape a giant. I decided to attempt the walk there the following day, weather permitting, which in Harz terms meant weather doing whatever it pleased regardless of my intentions.

That evening, back at the holiday home, I sat on the terrace with a beer and watched the clouds perform their evening theatre across the mountains. The temperature dropped with the efficiency of a well-run German train schedule, and I retreated indoors to plan the next day's walking with the serious attention usually reserved for military operations.

Day two brought fog so thick I could barely see the end of the garden. My Rosstrappe plan dissolved like sugar in tea. Instead, I walked the lower valley paths along the Bode, where the mist created something genuinely magical, all bare branches and hidden waterfalls. I passed the Harzer Bergtheater, that extraordinary open-air stage carved into the rock, its empty seats ghostly in the grey. A local dog walker emerged from the murk like a friendly apparition, and we exchanged the universal language of people who walk in bad weather: raised eyebrows, resigned smiles, mutual respect.

By afternoon, the fog had lifted to reveal that rarest of Harz phenomena, sustained sunshine. I power-walked up to the Rosstrappe like a woman possessed, determined to claim my view before the weather changed its mind again. The panorama from the top was staggering, the gorge now visible in its full dramatic depth, the river a silver thread far below. I stood there with my hair blowing in seventeen directions, feeling smug and windswept and properly alive.

The walk back down tested my knees and my waterproof trousers in equal measure. A sudden downpour caught me on the steepest section, turning the path into something approaching a stream. I slipped once, caught myself with the undignified flailing of a startled goose, and arrived back at the holiday home muddy, damp, and utterly delighted with myself.

That evening, warming myself with tea and the satisfaction of earned exhaustion, I reflected on my relationship with weather. Back home, I'd let a grey forecast cancel plans without a second thought. Here, in this landscape of sudden shifts and dramatic skies, I'd walked through every condition the Harz could throw at me and found something worth seeing in each. The sunshine views were spectacular, certainly, but the foggy valley had its own quiet mystery, and even the hailstorm had given me a rock overhang and a story to tell.

I spent my final day doing a gentler circuit through the Selke Valley, where the paths meander through meadows still dotted with traditional Harz houses, their carved wooden decorations speaking of a craft tradition centuries deep. The weather behaved with unusual courtesy, offering golden autumn light and just enough breeze to keep things interesting. I walked slowly, savouring the strange gratitude of someone who has learned to stop fighting the elements and start walking with them instead.

Driving away, my waterproof jacket still slightly damp in the boot, I caught myself checking the forecast one last time. Old habits, as they say, die hard. But I was already planning my return, already imagining new trails and new weather adventures. The Harz had taught me that the best walks aren't the ones with perfect conditions, but the ones where you pack properly, embrace the ridiculous, and keep putting one slightly muddy boot in front of the other.