I have never been so grateful for a pair of walking boots in all my life, and I say that as someone who once wore flip-flops to a wedding in Cornwall. The journey to Morro D'oro in Abruzzo began, as these things always do, with me feeling terribly organised. I had printed directions, charged my phone, and even packed a proper rucksack instead of my usual carrier bag approach to travel. What I had not accounted for was the Sat Nav developing what I can only describe as an existential crisis somewhere past Rome.

"Turn left," it insisted, as we faced a field of sheep. "Recalculating," it huffed, as we circled the same village three times. By the time we spotted the stone building perched on its hillside near Torricella Sicura, I had developed a twitch in my left eye and my partner had gone very quiet in that particularly British way that suggests someone will be bringing this up for years to come.

The owners greeted us with the kind of warmth that made our three-hour detour feel almost worthwhile. Almost. They showed us round the farmhouse, all terracotta floors and wooden beams, and mentioned that several walking trails started practically from the doorstep. The Gran Sasso mountains loomed in the distance, looking terribly dramatic and inviting. I nodded enthusiastically, already picturing myself as one of those capable people who stride up hills without making wheezing noises.

That first morning, I woke to brilliant sunshine streaming through the shutters. The British part of my brain immediately thought "quick, before it changes," while the holiday part thought "relax, you're in Italy, it's meant to be sunny." I chose the holiday brain, which was my first mistake. We set off for a circular walk toward the Monti della Laga, me in my sensible boots and my partner carrying enough water for a fortnight.

The path wound through olive groves and past abandoned stone farmhouses, the kind of scenery that makes you feel you've wandered into a painting. We spotted a hoopoe bird, which I initially identified with great confidence as "some sort of fancy pigeon," much to my partner's amusement. The air smelled of wild herbs and warm earth, and I may have become slightly insufferable about the whole "simple pleasures" nature of it all.

Then the weather turned. Not gradually, not with polite warning, but with the sudden theatricality of a Mediterranean summer storm. One moment we were basking in sunshine; the next, hailstones the size of chickpeas were bouncing off my head and I was discovering that my "waterproof" jacket had apparently been lying about its qualifications on its CV. We sheltered under a pine tree, which offered roughly the same protection as a colander, and I performed that peculiar British ritual of laughing at one's own misfortune while secretly planning a strongly worded letter to the jacket manufacturer.

The storm passed, as storms do, leaving us with muddy boots and a new appreciation for the covered terrace back at Morro D'oro. We squelched home, passing a local who merely raised an eyebrow at our bedraggled state, clearly accustomed to tourists who trust foreign weather reports.

The following days brought more walking adventures, though I became rather more obsessive about checking forecasts, cloud formations, and the behaviour of local cats for meteorological hints. We explored the trails toward Pietracamela, keeping one eye on the mountains where storms brewed and faded with capricious frequency. I learned to pack a proper rain cover, to start early before the heat built into afternoon turbulence, and to accept that my British instinct to prepare for the worst was not paranoia but practical wisdom earned through chickpea-sized hailstone trauma.

One morning we walked to a nearby hilltop village, the sort where elderly men gather in the piazza and regard passing strangers with benign curiosity. The sun shone, gentle breeze, perfect conditions. I allowed myself to relax, to stop scanning the horizon for threatening clouds. Naturally, we were caught in a sudden downpour on the return journey, though by then I had my waterproof properly deployed and merely felt smug rather than soggy.

Back at the farmhouse each evening, we would sit on that covered terrace with local wine and reflect on the day's excursions. The owners would occasionally appear with advice about trails, or simply to share observations about how the weather had been "unusual" this year, that particular euphemism that translates across all languages and all tourist experiences worldwide.

I came to love those walks despite, or perhaps because of, their meteorological unpredictability. There is something grounding about striding through ancient landscapes while modern weather apps prove themselves useless. Something humbling about planning your day around sunshine and ending up in a thunderstorm, laughing with your partner under inadequate tree cover.

My boots are still drying, three weeks later. I cannot bring myself to clean them properly, those scuffed leather witnesses to Abruzzo's changeable temperament. They sit by my door in London, occasionally catching my eye, reminding me that I once thought I could predict the weather in a foreign country, and that the best response to such hubris is simply to pack better waterproofs and maintain your sense of humour.