I have never been so grateful for a wonky sat-nav in all my life. There we were, winding down the Calabrian coast with the Tyrrhenian Sea glittering on one side and cliffs looming on the other, when our trusty device decided that the direct route to Scilla was apparently beneath it. Instead of gliding into town like seasoned continental travellers, we found ourselves bumping along a narrow track between lemon groves, my other half gripping the door handle and me trying to look like this was all part of the plan. The track ended at a dead end above a dry riverbed, where an elderly gentleman in a flat cap regarded our hire car with the amused patience of someone who has watched many such arrivals. Through a mixture of broken Italian and enthusiastic hand gestures, he redirected us back to civilisation, and twenty minutes later we finally pulled up at our Scilla holiday home.

The first thing that struck me was the light. It is different here, thicker somehow, golden and honeyed even in late afternoon. Our property sat perched above the marina, a traditional Calabrian house with terracotta tiles and shutters that had clearly weathered many a salty winter. I had grand plans, you see. I had packed my walking boots with the serious intention of tackling coastal paths every morning, of striding out before breakfast to conquer the headland trails that loop around this dramatic stretch of coastline. I had even downloaded a walking app, which is not something I do lightly.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

We woke to grey skies on our first morning, a peculiarly British sort of grey that made me feel oddly at home. I stood on the terrace in my shorts and hiking socks, clutching a coffee, watching clouds roll in from the sea with theatrical determination. "It will burn off," I announced confidently, channelling every optimistic father on every British beach holiday ever recorded. It did not burn off. It thickened, then it drizzled, then it properly rained, the kind of warm Mediterranean rain that feels almost apologetic but soaks you through regardless.

We set out anyway, because I am nothing if not stubborn when equipped with new boots. The path from Scilla up towards the Punta Pezzo headland starts steeply, climbing past fishermen's cottages where nets hang like giant cobwebs and the smell of drying oregano drifts from kitchen windows. Within twenty minutes the drizzle became something more committed. My supposedly breathable jacket proved itself a liar. Water found its way into places I did not know I had. My other half, who had sensibly packed a compact umbrella and was now wielding it against coastal gusts with the determination of a medieval knight, shot me a look that required no translation.

We retreated to Scilla's harbour, dripping and ridiculous, and found shelter in a tiny bar where an old man made us coffee without being asked and produced a plate of still-warm taralli from somewhere behind the counter. We sat there for an hour, steaming gently, watching the rain turn the sea the colour of slate. It was, I must admit, rather wonderful.

The weather became our companion and our comic adversary over the following days. We developed a routine of early starts, studying the sky with the furrowed concentration of amateur meteorologists, then adjusting our ambitions accordingly. A promising morning might see us tackling the lower coastal path towards Cannitello, weaving between railway line and shoreline, the beach empty except for a few hardy locals gathering sea urchins. The path here is uneven, sometimes scrambling over rocks where winter storms have undermined the trail, and I found myself surprisingly grateful for my British walking experience, all those soggy Sundays in the Lake District proving unexpectedly transferable.

When the clouds gathered, as they did with frustrating regularity, we adapted. We walked Scilla's own lanes instead, exploring the Chianalea fishing quarter where houses seem to grow directly from the rocks, their foundations washed by high tides. Here the narrow passages provide their own shelter, and we could wander for hours discovering tiny churches and unexpected staircases, the rain merely adding atmosphere and the occasional dramatic waterfall from ancient drainage channels.

One afternoon, emboldened by a brief appearance of actual sunshine, we attempted the full circuit to the Ruffo Castle viewpoint. The climb is proper work, switchbacking through prickly pear and wild fennel, and we had just reached the exposed upper section when the weather turned with almost comic timing. One moment we were admiring the view across the Strait of Messina, the next we were crouched against a stone wall as warm rain swept horizontally across the headland. My hat blew off and was recovered, eventually, from a gorse bush twenty metres below the path. I laughed, actually laughed, though there was something slightly hysterical about it.

What I came to understand, gradually, was that this weather-dictated rhythm suited the place better than my original ambitious itinerary. Calabria does not hurry, and attempting to march through it with a tick-list of trails missed something essential. The walks we did manage, on those mornings when the clouds lifted sufficiently, felt earned rather than conquered. A clear dawn might find us on the path above the marina as fishermen prepared their boats, the sea suddenly revealed in all its impossible blueness, the mountains across the strait sharp as a knife-cut against the sky. These moments of beauty, arriving unexpected after days of grey, carried a sweetness that perfect weather could never have matched.

On our final morning, typically, the sun emerged properly for the first time. We walked slowly along the lower path, stopping frequently, letting the warmth soak into bones that had grown accustomed to damp. I thought about my walking boots, now properly broken in and bearing the scuffs and salt stains of actual use rather than the pristine condition of aspiration. I thought about that first morning, standing on the terrace in my optimistic socks, and smiled at my own ridiculous determination.

The weather had not cooperated with my plans. It had given me something better instead, something I had not known to want. We finished our walk at the harbour, ordered coffee from the same bar, and sat watching the light on the water, already plotting our return, already knowing we would pack the boots again and hope, perhaps perversely, for more of the same.