I thought I'd packed everything for our walking holiday in Kashubia. Phone charger, walking boots, raincoat, sun cream, the lot. What I had not packed, as I discovered somewhere past Gdansk, was any sense of direction whatsoever. We followed the sat nav down a lane that grew progressively more convinced it was a footpath, until we found ourselves nose-to-nose with a very unimpressed-looking goat. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The "this is why I wanted to drive" look. I smiled brightly and reversed for what felt like three miles.

The house in Sikorzyno, when we finally found it, sat among trees with that particular stillness you only get in proper countryside. A red wooden place with a deck that practically begged for a morning coffee. I bounded out of the car, full of plans for coastal hikes and golden afternoons. The owner had left a note saying the Kashubian Lake District trails were glorious this time of year, and I'd already mapped out a route to the coast near Wladyslawowo. Twelve miles, nothing too mad. We'd be there by lunch, walking the cliffs, breathing that Baltic air.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas.

I woke to grey skies and a wind that rattled the bedroom window like someone trying to get in. By the time we'd eaten breakfast, proper rain had arrived. Not English drizzle, mind you. This was Polish rain, enthusiastic and committed. We stood on the deck in our waterproofs, looking out at trees doing a proper dance, and I felt my coastal ambitions washing away quite literally.

"Shorter walk?" my partner suggested, far too kindly.

We drove to nearby Sominy instead, where the forest trails wind between lakes rather than cliffs. Within half an hour, the rain stopped. Within an hour, I was sweating in my waterproofs because the sun had emerged with what I can only describe as aggressive optimism. Kashubia does this, apparently. Four seasons before lunch. We stripped off layers, tied them round our waists, and carried on through pine woods that smelled absolutely incredible after the rain. The lakes sat perfectly still, mirroring clouds that were already building again in the distance.

That became our pattern over the days that followed. Up early for the clearest weather, out on trails before the afternoon instability rolled in. We walked the paths around Przodkowo one morning, passing those distinctive Kashubian houses with their decorative wooden details, the ones that look like they've been hand-painted by someone with endless patience and very steady hands. Another day we tackled a longer loop through the Szwajcaria Kaszubska, which sounds far more dramatic than it is but offers proper rolling hills and sudden views across farmland that make you stop and just look.

The coast never happened, not properly. We drove towards Wladyslawowo once, saw the clouds massing over the sea, and turned back for a lakeside walk instead. I was disappointed, I'll admit. I'd built it up in my head, that first sight of the Baltic from the clifftop path. But standing by Lake Ostrzyckie that afternoon, watching a heron lift off from the reeds, I had one of those moments. You know the ones. Where you realise your fixed idea of how something should be is actually just getting in the way of what is.

The weather forced us into flexibility, into shorter walks and local loops, into noticing what was right there rather than marching towards some distant goal. We ate pierogi in a garden restaurant in Kartuzy when another downpour caught us. We talked to a farmer whose dog decided my walking boot was worth guarding. We moved slower, saw more, let Kashubia show us what it wanted to rather than what we'd demanded.

On our last morning, the sun rose clear and warm. We walked from the house itself, following a path through meadows still heavy with dew, and I finally understood why people come here. Not for the dramatic moments, though those happen too. For the quiet ones. The heron lifting off. The pine smell after rain. The goat that watches you reverse with undisguised judgment.

I still want that coastal walk, mind you. Next time, I'll check the forecast more carefully. Or perhaps I won't. Perhaps I'll just pack better waterproofs and see what happens.