I had been dreaming about our trip to Ostseeresort Olpenitz for weeks, so naturally I spent the entire drive from Hamburg convinced I had packed everything. The sat-nav cheerfully announced our arrival in Schleswig-Holstein, and there it was: the sleek modern architecture of the resort rising from the flat coastal landscape like someone had planted a handful of glass and timber seeds and watered them with Baltic Sea mist. I practically skipped to the boot to grab our bags. That's when I discovered my walking boots sitting on the kitchen table at home, approximately two hundred miles away. My partner looked at my trainers, looked at the November sky, and said nothing. He didn't need to.

The resort itself was exactly the sort of place that makes you forgive your own stupidity. Floor-to-ceiling windows in our waterfront apartment framed the Schlei inlet like a living painting, and I stood there for a full five minutes watching a heron stand completely still in the reeds, apparently waiting for something better to happen. The wooden terraces and maritime styling felt properly Scandinavian, which made sense given we were practically in Denmark. I spotted the sauna from our balcony and made a mental note that would prove optimistic.

We had planned, you see, a proper walking holiday. The brochure had promised miles of coastal trails, nature reserves, that sort of wholesome activity that justifies large evening meals. The Wadden Sea National Park was practically on our doorstep, and I had researched routes through the salt marshes with the enthusiasm of someone who owns proper footwear. My trainers, I told myself, would be fine. They were not fine.

The first morning dawned grey but dry, and we set off along the dyke path towards Kappeln. The wind hit us about thirty seconds later. Schleswig-Holstein wind is not like British wind, which at least has the decency to gust and pause. This was relentless, horizontal, personally offended. Within ten minutes my ears ached, my eyes watered, and I understood why the locals all wore those sensible padded jackets in muted colours. I had brought a raincoat designed for a gentle Cotswolds drizzle. It flapped around me like a broken umbrella.

Still, the landscape was extraordinary. The mudflats stretched towards Denmark in patterns of silver and brown, and somewhere out there I knew the migrating birds were stopping off in their thousands. We saw a few hardy souls with actual binoculars and actual boots, nodding at us with that particular German politeness that manages to convey both greeting and mild concern for our life choices.

By afternoon the rain arrived, not dramatically but with German efficiency. My trainers began making that squelching sound that signals permanent psychological damage to footwear. We turned back, defeated, passing the resort's marina where expensive boats bobbed and presumably judged us.

The next three days became an exercise in meteorological optimism. Each morning I checked three weather apps, each promising slightly different versions of disappointment. We attempted the nature trail towards Olpenitzer Haff twice, turning back once when the path flooded and once when the wind literally stopped us walking in a straight line. I have never before been weather that required actual leaning.

There was something almost comically British about the whole enterprise. Here we were, determined to walk in November on the Baltic coast, equipped with inadequate clothing and a stubborn refusal to admit defeat. I found myself laughing into the horizontal rain, thinking of all those family holidays where my father had insisted on "getting some air" while the rest of us huddled in car parks.

We did manage one glorious hour. A sudden break in the clouds on our fourth morning sent us scrambling along the beach at full speed, knowing our window was limited. The light on the water was extraordinary, pale gold against grey, and for those sixty minutes I understood completely why people come here. Then the rain returned, and we retreated to the resort's wellness area with the desperate gratitude of shipwreck survivors.

I spent rather more time in that sauna than planned, watching the weather through floor-to-ceiling windows, my trainers slowly drying on the radiator. We played cards. We drank too much coffee. We watched the heron, who never moved, apparently untroubled by meteorology.

On our final morning I packed my still-slightly-damp trainers with something approaching affection. The boots at home would have been no better, I told myself. The weather would have been the same. There's a particular kind of holiday memory that comes from things going slightly wrong, from plans dissolving into improvisation, from standing in Baltic rain and laughing because the alternative is crying.

We checked out past reception, where a display advertised summer sailing courses and cycling routes through blooming rapeseed fields. I took a brochure. Next time, I thought. Next time with boots, and perhaps a small inflatable boat for the flooded paths. The heron, I noticed, was still there. Some creatures know exactly what they're doing.