I have never been one to trust a sat nav implicitly, and yet there I was, somewhere near a village called Debki on the Polish Baltic coast, watching mine insist that our holiday cottage was located in the middle of a cabbage field. My partner, ever the optimist, suggested we drive closer to the actual sea. I, ever the stubborn mule, declared we had arrived and proceeded to reverse into a very soft verge. Cue twenty minutes of muddy shoes, a local farmer looking on with what I can only describe as world-weary amusement, and the dawning realisation that "Debki" and "the middle of nowhere" are not mutually exclusive concepts.

We found the proper road eventually, of course. The cottage itself, when we finally rolled up, was one of those sturdy wooden numbers that the Poles do rather well - all honey-coloured timber and a deck that practically begged for a morning coffee. I had planned this as a walking holiday, you see. Warm weather, coastal trails, that sort of wholesome nonsense. The sort of trip where you return slightly fitter and enormously smug. The sun was indeed shining as we hauled our bags inside, and I remember standing on that deck feeling rather pleased with myself. The Baltic glittered in the distance, the pine forest smelled properly of holiday, and I had already mapped out a twelve-mile coastal hike for the following day.

The morning brought clouds, but I am British and therefore undeterred by mere grey skies. We set off along the coastal path heading north, the trail weaving between sandy dunes and patches of proper old forest. For perhaps two glorious hours, it was everything I had imagined. The beach at Debki itself is a fine stretch of sand, and the path keeps you close enough to hear the waves without sinking into the softer stuff. We passed a few other walkers, some with dogs that looked considerably more enthusiastic than I felt. I was busy congratulating myself on my foresight when the first fat drops began to fall.

Polish coastal weather, I have since learned, does not do gradual. One moment we were warm and slightly smug; the next, we were standing in what I can only describe as a vertical lake. The trail, so pleasant moments before, turned to something resembling porridge. My supposedly waterproof jacket surrendered immediately. We squelched back to the cottage looking like contestants on one of those survival programmes where nobody wins anything.

I spent that evening staring out at rain that appeared to be falling sideways, nursing a cup of tea and reconsidering my life choices. There is something about being soaked to the bone in a foreign country that prompts a certain introspection. I had wanted to conquer the coast, to tick off miles and return with stories of endurance. Instead, I was damp and slightly humbled, watching the weather do whatever it pleased while I waited for it to stop.

The following days taught me to be more flexible, which is a polite way of saying I learned to walk shorter distances and carry more spare socks. We explored the immediate coastline in bursts, darting out between showers, finding stretches of beach that felt entirely ours. The weather never quite settled into the warmth I had anticipated, but there were moments - a sudden clearing where the light turned the water silver, an afternoon warm enough to sit on the deck without shivering - that felt earned rather than given.

I never did complete that twelve-mile hike. The Baltic had other plans, and I suppose I am grateful for it. Some holidays teach you endurance; others teach you to look at the forecast with a healthy scepticism and to pack trousers you do not mind destroying in Polish mud.