I have to admit, I had never heard of Wasungen before I booked our little place in Thuringia. My partner found it on one of those holiday rental sites, and I just nodded along, pretending I knew exactly where in Germany we were going. Turns out it is a proper gem of a town, tucked away in the Werra valley, surrounded by hills that looked positively inviting for walking. That was the plan, anyway. Walk, explore, breathe in that fresh German air, maybe spot a castle or two. What actually happened involved considerably more rain and a rather embarrassing incident with a sat nav.

The journey from the UK was your classic long haul. Ferry, then hours of autobahn, gradually leaving the flatlands behind and creeping into proper hill country. We were both giddy with that holiday excitement, you know the sort, where even service station coffee tastes brilliant. Then came the mishap. Our sat nav decided that the most direct route to Wasungen involved what I can only describe as a farm track. Not a charming country lane. A track. Mud, potholes, the works. I was convinced we were going to have to reverse half a mile back to civilisation, which in my nervous state I absolutely could not do without hitting something. Sure enough, I clipped a wooden fence post. Just a nudge, really, but enough to leave a smear of red paint on it and a dent in my pride. My partner very kindly did not laugh until we had actually reached the cottage. I sulked for a good twenty minutes.

The cottage itself, when we finally arrived, was lovely. Traditional Thuringian place, wooden beams, that slightly creaky floor that tells you it has been standing since before your grandmother was born. We dumped our bags, pulled on our walking boots, and stepped out with that determined British optimism that refuses to acknowledge weather forecasts. The sky was grey, but it was not actually raining. Yet.

We headed up toward the hills above Wasungen, aiming for one of the marked wanderwege that crisscross this part of Thuringia. The Werra valley is stunning when you get up high, all rolling meadows and patches of forest, little villages dotted about with their Fachwerk houses. We were maybe forty minutes in when the first drops fell. Light, I told myself. Just a shower. We pressed on, because that is what you do, is it not? You are British. You have been rained on before.

The shower became a downpour. Not the dramatic thunderstorm sort, but that steady, soaking German rain that finds every gap in your waterproofs. We turned back, squelching down the path, my so-called breathable jacket proving itself a liar. By the time we reached the cottage, we looked like two people who had fallen in a canal. My partner made tea while I stood in the hallway, dripping onto the tiles and contemplating my life choices.

The next morning dawned grey but dry. We were not defeated. We set off for a shorter loop, something closer to town, figuring we could bail quickly if needed. Wasungen itself is pleasant to wander, narrow streets, the odd bakery selling Thuringian specialities. We got as far as the outskirts before the heavens opened again. This time we were prepared, or so we thought. Umbrellas, proper coats, the lot. The wind simply turned them inside out. We sheltered under a bus stop like a pair of bedraggled tourists, which of course we were, and waited it out.

By day three, I had developed what I can only describe as a weather obsession. Constantly checking apps, peering at the sky, negotiating with clouds. We managed a decent walk along the Werra river, flat and sheltered, nothing ambitious. It felt like a victory. The Thuringian Forest proper, those higher peaks I had read about, remained stubbornly out of reach. Too wet, too risky, too likely to end with me slipping on a root and adding actual injury to my existing dented pride.

There was a moment, I remember, sitting in a little cafe in Wasungen after another aborted hike, steaming mug in my hands, watching the rain run down the window. My partner was reading a local leaflet about Schloss Walldorf, some baroque pile a few miles away. I felt that familiar holiday frustration, the sense that your plans are slipping away. But then I looked around, this ordinary little place, warm and dry, and thought, well, this is still rather nice, is it not? The walking was not the point, not really. The being here was the point. Even the being here and getting soaked.

We did get one proper dry afternoon on our last full day. We marched up to a viewpoint, determined to make it count. The landscape opened up, green and lush from all that rain, the Werra snaking through the valley below. I stood there, boots finally dry, and felt genuinely moved by it. All that struggle for this one moment of clarity. Typical, really. The British way. Make everything difficult, then feel disproportionately pleased when it works out.

I still have that fence post's paint on my car, by the way. A little red reminder of our Thuringian adventure. I cannot bring myself to clean it off.