I have to admit, I had one of those classic British holiday moments before I'd even left Gatwick. There I was, smugly packed for an Italian walking holiday, layers neatly folded, boots polished, when I realised I'd left my entire walking sock collection on the kitchen radiator. Not my finest hour. A frantic dash to WHSmith for three pairs of overpriced cotton monstrosities, and I was off to Abruzzo, determined that no sock-related disaster would derail my plans.

The drive from Pescara airport to Ascoli Piceno took us through some properly dramatic scenery. Mountains rearing up on both sides, little stone villages clinging to hillsides like they'd been dropped there by accident. My partner kept saying "blimey" every five minutes, which I took as a good sign. We'd booked a traditional stone farmhouse through Novasol, tucked into the countryside just outside the town, and I was already imagining myself striding purposefully across ridge lines like some sort of Mediterranean Alfred Wainwright.

The property itself was gorgeous in that slightly rugged way that makes you feel immediately pretentious for admiring it. Exposed stone walls, wooden beams you could probably hang a hammock from if you were brave enough, and a terrace that looked out towards the Sibillini Mountains. The owner, a chap called Marco with hands like shovels and about six words of English, pointed enthusiastically at various peaks and made walking motions with his fingers. I nodded along, already mentally mapping our routes.

We woke the first morning to proper British-style drizzle. Not the dramatic Italian thunderstorm I'd half-hoped for, but that persistent, grey, settling rain that makes you check your phone every twelve minutes for weather updates. Still, we're British, aren't we? A bit of damp never stopped anyone. We pulled on our waterproofs, I stuffed my inadequate cotton socks into my boots, and we set off for a local trail Marco had indicated, heading up towards a ridge above the town.

Within forty minutes, my socks had achieved that special state of complete saturation where they start making squelching noises. The path, which had looked manageable on the map, had turned into something resembling a stream. My partner, who has always possessed the annoying ability to find physical discomfort amusing, kept laughing every time I winced. We pressed on for another hour, the rain somehow getting heavier despite my repeated insistence that it must surely be about to clear.

At the top of the ridge, we found a small chapel, locked up tight, with a porch just deep enough to shelter under. We stood there, steaming gently, eating squashed sandwiches and watching the clouds roll across the valley below. It was actually rather beautiful, in a bleak, moorland sort of way. I found myself thinking about how I'd planned this trip around perfect sunshine and panoramic views, and here I was, soaked through, eating a slightly soggy panino, and feeling oddly content.

The descent was faster, partly because the path had become genuinely treacherous and partly because I was desperate to get back and investigate whether Marco's property had a tumble dryer. It did not. We spent the evening draping socks and trousers over every available surface, the wood burner going full blast, drinking local Montepulciano and feeling thoroughly pleased with ourselves.

The next three days followed a similar pattern. We'd wake to grey skies, consult various weather apps that all told us slightly different lies, then head out anyway. We walked through olive groves where the rain made the leaves shine silver, along river paths where the water ran chocolate-brown and furious, up to viewpoints where we saw absolutely nothing but cloud. On the third day, the sun finally broke through for perhaps twenty minutes, and we stood on a hillside near Castel di Lama like we'd personally summoned it, faces turned up like a pair of hopeful sunflowers.

I did eventually find a proper outdoor shop in Ascoli Piceno town and bought socks that actually worked. The woman behind the counter took one look at my walking boots, still slightly green from some marsh-related incident, and sold me woollen hiking socks with the solemnity of someone performing an intervention.

By the end of the week, I'd stopped checking the weather so obsessively. There's something about walking in proper rain, the kind that gets into everything, that strips away any pretence of being a serious outdoors person. You're just someone putting one foot in front of another, slightly cold, slightly damp, noticing things you might have missed in perfect sunshine. The way water finds paths down limestone cliffs. The smell of wet rosemary. The particular silence of a valley when even the birds have given up.

On our final morning, we did get our clear day. We walked up to the same ridge where we'd sheltered in the chapel porch, and this time we could see for miles. The mountains stretched away in layers of blue, Ascoli Piceno's terracotta roofs visible in the distance, the whole landscape looking impossibly picturesque and nothing like the grey, closed-in world we'd been walking through all week.

It was stunning, genuinely. But I think I'll remember the rainy days more clearly. The squelching socks, the steam rising from our waterproofs in Marco's kitchen, the slightly hysterical laughter when another downpour caught us miles from anywhere. You plan a walking holiday for the views, the exercise, the sense of achievement. You don't plan for the moments when you're thoroughly uncomfortable and somehow not minding at all.

We left the property with our boots finally dry, my new socks safely packed, and a mental note to always, always check the radiator before leaving home.