I should have known the sat nav was up to no good when it tried to send me through a field just outside Rendsburg. There I was, convinced I was being clever avoiding the A7, and suddenly I was staring at a tractor and a very unimpressed-looking sheep. Classic me, thinking I knew better than technology. Forty minutes of creative German countryside navigation later, I finally spotted the Ostseeresort Olpenitz peeking through the pines, and honestly, the relief was almost as good as the sea air that hit me when I opened the car door.

The first thing that struck me was the light. Schleswig-Holstein does this particular quality of coastal brightness, all pale sky and water reflecting off everything, and the resort sits right in the thick of it on that little peninsula where the Schlei meets the Baltic. My apartment was one of the newer ones, all clean lines and enormous windows, and I had this ridiculous notion that I would immediately fling open the balcony doors and stride out into nature like some kind of Nordic walking enthusiast. The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

I had packed with what I now recognise as comical optimism. One proper waterproof, stuffed at the bottom of my bag just in case, and three jumpers I had somehow convinced myself I would not need in June. The first morning dawned grey and spitty, that particular Baltic mist that is not quite rain but absolutely soaks you through if you are stubborn enough to ignore it. I ignored it. I pulled on my inadequate trainers and set off along the coastal path towards Kappeln, full of determination and absolutely no sense whatsoever.

The walk to Kappeln is genuinely lovely when you can see more than twenty feet in front of you. I caught glimpses of traditional thatched-roof houses, the odd sailing boat ghosting past in the Schlei, and approximately four hundred very wet sheep who looked at me with the kind of judgement I probably deserved. By the time I reached the harbour, I was damp in places I did not know could get damp, and I spent twenty minutes in a bakery drinking coffee and pretending to be interested in my phone while actually just enjoying being indoors and slightly less moist.

The afternoon brightened, because of course it did, just as I was heading back. Suddenly there was actual sunshine, and the water went that particular milky turquoise the Baltic gets, and I found myself walking much slower than necessary, stopping every few minutes to take photos of reeds and suspicious-looking birds. I got back to the resort feeling rather smug about my resilience, which lasted precisely until I checked the forecast and saw what was coming.

Day two was meant to be my big hike. I had planned this ambitious loop down through the Geltinger Birk nature reserve, all salt marshes and birdwatching towers and proper wilderness. I woke to horizontal rain and wind that made the balcony furniture sound like it was considering a move to Denmark. I stood at my enormous window with a cup of tea and had what I can only describe as a moment of mature reflection. The old me would have gone anyway, would have come back three hours later with mild hypothermia and a story about nobility in suffering. The new me, apparently, put on comfortable socks and read a book about the Schleswig-Holstein oyster industry instead.

When the weather finally cleared that afternoon, I did manage a shorter walk along the beach towards Schoenhagen, picking my way through the distinctive flint pebbles that rattle so satisfyingly underfoot. The wind had dropped to merely enthusiastic rather than violent, and the late sun turned the wet sand into something almost metallic and strange. I walked until my calves ached from the uneven ground, then turned back as the light started to go, feeling that particular holiday satisfaction of having earned my dinner.

My final morning brought the best weather of the trip, naturally, just in time for packing the car. I got up early and did one last quick loop around the resort's own little harbour area, watching the local boats bobbing and the serious German walkers already out with their proper sticks and sensible trousers. I thought about my waterlogged first day with genuine affection. There is something about the Baltic coast that resists being conquered, that keeps you slightly at arm's length with its changeable moods and its flat, unshowy beauty. I came expecting to master it with my walking plans, and instead it gently taught me the virtue of a good waterproof and knowing when to stay inside with a book. I left with damp trainers, a slightly sunburned nose, and the certain knowledge that I would be back, hopefully with better jumpers and slightly more respect for the forecast.