I had always fancied myself as the sort of person who checks the weather before packing for a holiday, but apparently that was a lie I had been telling myself for years. It was not until I was standing on a platform at Naples Centrale, clutching a suitcase full of linen shirts and a single flimsy cardigan, that I realised Campania in late October was not quite the balmy escape I had imagined. The rain was coming down with what I can only describe as theatrical commitment, and I had three miles to walk to my Caserta holiday let with nothing but a misplaced sense of optimism and a paper map that was already dissolving.

The walk from the station was supposed to be the gentle introduction to my week, a pleasant amble through the town to ease myself into la dolce vita. Instead it became a sort of involuntary endurance event. Within ten minutes my shoes had achieved that squelching consistency that would accompany me for days. I passed a group of local lads sheltering under a cafe awning who watched me trudge past with the sympathetic expressions usually reserved for lost dogs. I waved cheerfully, because that is what British people do when they are suffering publicly.

By the time I reached the property I was so thoroughly soaked that I half-expected to leave a puddle in the shape of my entire body on the terracotta tiles. The place itself, when I finally fumbled the key in the lock and stumbled inside, was an absolute revelation. Vaulted ceilings, warm ochre walls, that particular stillness of an old Italian house that makes you want to exhale properly for the first time in months. I stood there dripping onto the floor and laughed, partly from relief and partly because the absurdity of the situation had finally caught up with me. There was a wood-burning stove in the corner that looked at me with unmistakable smugness, as if it had known all along that I would need it.

The next morning I woke to brilliant sunshine and a sky so blue it felt almost aggressive. This, I decided, was the real Campania. I set off walking towards the Royal Palace of Caserta, which rose in the distance with the understated modesty of a structure containing over a thousand rooms. The gardens stretched for what seemed like miles, formal and fountains and avenues of trees that demanded to be wandered properly. I walked until my legs ached pleasantly, until the previous day's miseries seemed like a story about someone else entirely.

But the weather here has a sense of humour, I was learning. By afternoon the clouds had regrouped with what felt like personal vendetta. I was caught halfway along a path lined with statues, each one seeming to smirk as the first drops fell. I took shelter beneath a particularly imposing figure of some minor deity and waited, watching Italian families stroll past with umbrellas they had sensibly brought, with jackets they had not left mouldering in British wardrobes.

The following days settled into a rhythm of negotiation with the elements. I walked the hills around Caserta in the clear mornings, following trails through vineyards where the grapes had mostly been harvested but the leaves still clung to their autumn colours. I learned to set out early, to cover my ground before the afternoon theatrics began. When the rain came, as it reliably did, I retreated to the town's cafes and developed an expensive attachment to proper Neapolitan coffee and sfogliatelle that crunched and gave way to sweet ricotta in precisely the way a wet walker needs.

There was something in this compromise that I found myself reflecting on more than I expected. I am someone who plans, who checks reviews, who likes to feel prepared. Yet here I was, adapting by necessity, walking when I could and waiting when I must, and finding that the waiting was not wasted time but simply a different texture of experience. The British instinct to press on regardless, to grimly complete the planned hike in horizontal rain, was not serving me here. The Italians around me seemed to understand something I was slowly learning: that the weather is not an obstacle to overcome but a condition to accommodate.

On my final morning I walked one last time through the town as dawn broke misty and golden. My shoes had finally dried out, though they would never quite be the same. I passed the same cafe where those lads had sheltered, now serving early coffees to market workers. One of them recognised me, raised his cup with a grin. I raised mine back, feeling briefly like a local, or at least like someone who had begun to understand the place a little.

I left Campania with legs tired from walking, a stomach full of pastries, and a suitcase of linen shirts that had never seen daylight. The cardigan, meanwhile, had developed a sort of heroic status, the one sensible thing in a week of miscalculation. I have checked the weather forecast for every holiday since, I promise you. Though I am not entirely sure I would change that first sodden walk if I could. Sometimes you need to arrive thoroughly humbled before you can properly begin.