I had been dreaming of Peloponnese sunshine for months, so naturally I packed three pairs of shorts, two sun hats, and enough factor 30 to varnish a boat. The train from Athens to Diakopto was meant to be the scenic highlight of my journey, winding through the Vouraikos Gorge with views that would make me weep into my travel pillow. Instead, I wept for an entirely different reason.

In my enthusiasm, I had managed to board the wrong train at Athens. Not slightly wrong. Not "oh this stops at the same station eventually" wrong. Properly, gloriously wrong, heading in the opposite direction towards Thessaloniki like a confused salmon. By the time the ticket inspector looked at my pass with the expression of a man who had seen this exact disaster many times before, I had already eaten my packed lunch in premature celebration. Two hours later, backtracking through grey drizzle, I finally arrived at Diakopto station with damp sandwiches and a severely bruised ego.

The owner of my holiday let was waiting with the patience of a saint who had definitely been warned. "British?" she asked, gesturing at my shorts in fifteen-degree weather. I nodded, too exhausted to explain that my weather app had promised twenty-five and sunny. She handed me the keys to a charming stone house with a terrace that would, on a clear day, offer views of the Gulf of Corinth. That day, it offered views of clouds that looked personally offended by my presence.

I had planned my entire week around walking. The Odontotos Rack Railway, that famous narrow-gauge line climbing to Kalavryta, was top of my list. I had imagined striding out from my base in Diakopto each morning, conquering mountain paths with the vigour of someone who walks to the pub back home and considers it exercise. The reality was rather more British.

The first morning dawned with rain that can only be described as committed. Not dramatic Greek thunderstorm rain, but that persistent, grey, thoroughly British drizzle that makes you wonder if you accidentally brought the weather with you like a particularly unwelcome souvenir. I stood on the terrace in my anorak, which I had packed "just in case" with the smugness of someone who had never truly expected to need it, and made a decision. I would walk anyway.

The path along the coast towards Eliki started promisingly. The sea churned grey-green, olive trees dripped rhythmically onto my hood, and I passed precisely no other walkers. Within twenty minutes, my "waterproof" trainers had surrendered entirely, squelching with every step like wet sponges. I found a taverna shuttered for the season and stood under its awning, eating a squashed cereal bar and contemplating my life choices. A local man drove past in a truck, slowed down, and laughed openly at me before waving and continuing on. I could not blame him.

The second day brought actual sunshine, and I practically ran to the railway station to catch the rack railway up to Zachlorou. The climb through the gorge is spectacular, tunnels carved through rock, the river rushing below, and I sat pressed against the window like an excitable child. At Zachlorou, I disembarked with grand plans to walk the trail back down to Diakopto, a route that follows the railway line through the gorge. I had read it takes about three hours, mostly downhill, suitable for reasonably fit walkers. Reasonably fit. There is a phrase to haunt a person.

I managed perhaps forty minutes before the path, already slippery from previous rain, presented me with a choice: a steep rocky section that required actual scrambling, or admitting defeat. A group of German hikers appeared behind me, moving with the efficiency of people who had proper boots and perhaps actual training. They paused politely, waiting for me to commit or retreat. I retreated, waving them past with what I hoped looked like casual choice rather than cowardice. They nodded sympathetically. I took the train back down, sitting among day-trippers who had not attempted heroics, and ate an entire packet of biscuits in silent consolation.

By midweek, I had developed a weather-obsessed routine. Each morning began with anxious consultation of multiple forecasts, none of which agreed. I walked when I could, shorter coastal ambles rather than mountain conquests, learning to appreciate the olive groves in mist, the sudden appearance of wildflowers when clouds briefly parted, the particular quality of light when sunshine breaks through after rain. On the beach at Diakopto, deserted in the off-season, I found myself walking for an hour without seeing another soul, collecting unusual stones that I would later forget in the rental car.

The turning point came unexpectedly. After three days of intermittent drizzle and compromised ambitions, I woke to proper blue sky, the kind that makes you suspicious it cannot last. I had already booked another attempt on the gorge walk, this time starting from Diakopto and heading upward, figuring I could always catch the train back from whichever station I reached. The path was transformed, the river sparkling where it had been sullen, wild sage releasing scent as I brushed past. I walked for two hours, slower than I had planned but steady, reaching Niamata station with actual pride and slightly fewer blisters than expected.

I celebrated with a late lunch at a taverna in Zachlorou, reached by that blessed train, where the owner seemed genuinely impressed I had walked any of the route at all. The grilled sardines tasted of triumph, or possibly just of being extremely hungry, which amounts to the same thing.

The final days brought more mixed weather, and I found myself oddly grateful for it. Without the rain, I would have marched through my planned itinerary without noticing much at all. Instead, I had become someone who checked the sky before setting out, who carried a proper waterproof, who adapted and occasionally failed and adapted again. On my last morning, I walked the coastal path once more, this time in weak sunshine, and passed that same shuttered taverna where I had sheltered. It looked almost fond in memory, that spot of temporary defeat.

I left Diakopto with unused sun hats, an anorak that had earned its keep, and a collection of damp photographs featuring more clouds than I would prefer. The train back to Athens departed on time, and I checked the destination board three times before boarding. Some lessons, it turns out, do eventually stick.