I had been looking forward to our trip to Ostseeresort Olpenitz for weeks, so naturally I managed to make a complete hash of the journey before we even left Yorkshire. In my excitement, I'd set my alarm for half past five, checked the car three times, and then confidently set off with my rucksack full of walking boots, waterproofs, and enough snacks to survive a fortnight in the Cairngorms. It was only when we reached Hull for the ferry that I realised my other half had been sitting in the passenger seat with her bag, whilst mine sat cheerfully on the kitchen table sixty miles behind us. She found this considerably funnier than I did, and I spent the crossing to Rotterdam fielding jokes about my organisational skills whilst wearing borrowed wellies two sizes too small.

The drive up through Germany was straightforward enough, and by the time we crossed into Schleswig-Holstein I was already plotting walks along the Baltic coast. I'd read about the trails around Kappeln and the Schlei fjord, and I had grand visions of striding along cliff paths like a seasoned explorer, breathing in that famously brisk sea air. The weather app had shown nothing but sunshine for days. I should have known better. I am British, after all, and ought to recognise that apps lie.

We arrived at Ostseeresort Olpenitz in the late afternoon, and I will admit the place made me forget my earlier embarrassment rather quickly. The resort sits right on the water's edge, with those modern Scandinavian-style houses clustered amongst dunes and reeds. Our particular cottage had a terrace that looked directly out towards the Schlei, and I stood there with a cup of tea planning the magnificent hike I would take come morning. The light was doing that golden thing across the water, and I felt terribly pleased with myself despite the ill-fitting wellies.

Morning brought horizontal rain. Not gentle drizzle or passing showers, but the sort of determined, soaking precipitation that makes you question your life choices. I stood at the window in my walking trousers, watching the reeds bend double, whilst my other half suggested we simply read books and drink coffee. I refused on principle. We had come to walk, and walk we would.

I lasted forty minutes. The path along the dyke towards Olpenitz itself was technically passable, but the wind coming off the Schlei had other ideas about my dignity. My borrowed wellies, already a poor fit, began rubbing in places I did not know could chafe. The waterproof jacket I had borrowed from my other half proved excellent at keeping water in rather than out. By the time we reached the little harbour area, I was soaked through and wearing an expression of grim martyrdom that she found, once again, hilarious.

We retreated to the cottage, where I stood in the shower for twenty minutes trying to remember what warmth felt like. The afternoon cleared briefly, and like a fool I suggested another attempt. This time we managed a pleasant stroll through the resort itself, wandering past the marina and watching the boats bob about. The architecture is genuinely striking, all clean lines and big windows, and when the sun did appear it transformed the place entirely. I began to understand why people return here year after year.

The following day brought more typical Schleswig-Holstein weather, by which I mean four seasons in one hour. We set out properly equipped this time, my own boots finally retrieved from a very patient neighbour back home, and tackled the coastal path towards Kappeln. The walking here is flat but rewarding, threading through salt marshes and past traditional thatched cottages that look like something from a picture book. Every time the sun emerged, I would confidently remove my jacket, only to scramble it back on moments later as another squall swept in from the Baltic. My other half stopped bothering to zip hers up and simply walked with it flapping like a cape.

What struck me most was how the landscape shifted with the light. One moment the Schlei looked grey and forbidding, the next it was sparkling silver-green, and you could see across to the far shore with perfect clarity. We passed fishermen mending nets, cyclists battling the same wind that had defeated me earlier, and a remarkable number of very cheerful dogs who seemed utterly indifferent to the conditions. I began to relax into the rhythm of it, stopping when it rained too hard, pressing on when it eased, accepting that control was neither possible nor particularly desirable.

By our final full day, I had abandoned any pretence of being a serious walker. We took a gentle amble to the nearby beach area, where the sand stretches out towards the open water and the horizon feels enormous. The weather obliged with actual sunshine for nearly two hours, and I sat on a driftwood log feeling rather smug about the whole enterprise. My wellies were broken in, my waterproofs had finally started working properly, and I had accumulated enough modest adventures to feel satisfied without requiring any actual heroics.

The journey home was uneventful, my bag safely in the boot this time. I found myself thinking about that first morning, standing stubbornly in the rain, and how quickly I had wanted to abandon everything when conditions proved less than ideal. There is something about walking in changeable weather that teaches you patience, or perhaps just humility. You cannot bully the elements into compliance, and pretending otherwise only leaves you with chafed ankles and a wounded pride.

I would go back to Ostseeresort Olpenitz tomorrow, though perhaps I would pack an extra pair of socks and slightly lower expectations. The walking is gentle, the scenery rewards those who wait for the light to shift, and there is something deeply satisfying about returning to a warm cottage after a proper soaking. My other half has already booked for next spring, and I have promised to check my bag three times before departure. Some lessons, it seems, do eventually stick.