I’ll never forget the drive to that little spot near Blakeney – we’d packed the car with wellies, maps, and a thermos of tea, buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. Me and the missus, plus our daft spaniel, Monty, were off for a few days’ walking in the Forest of Dean. But about halfway there, just past Gloucester, the heavens opened and Monty decided to have a full-on panic in the back seat, flinging his lead everywhere. Cue me pulling over in the pouring rain to sort him out, soaked to the skin before we’d even arrived. Typical, eh? Still, it had us laughing by the time we trundled down that wooded valley towards the River Severn.

Pulling up, the first impressions were spot on – this cosy, characterful Grade-II listed cottage tucked right near the tidal banks, all history from its fishing boat days next to an old cider mill. Pet-friendly too, which was a godsend for Monty. We dumped the bags, brewed a cuppa, and stepped out for our first wander, already plotting epic hikes along the ever-changing estuary.

Day one was a belter. Blue skies, crisp air – perfect for striding out along the Severn Way towards Blakeney Point, about a mile and a half away. Seals barking in the distance, mudflats gleaming, and those massive skies you only get out here. We poked around the saltmarshes, Monty splashing like a loon, and I felt that proper reset – you know, that moment where city noise fades and you’re just breathing proper countryside air. Lunch was a flask of soup on a driftwood log, watching the tide rush in like it owned the place.

But oh, British weather – it’s got a right sense of humour. Next morning, we’d planned a longer loop through the wooded valley, maybe looping back via the harbour at Blakeney village. Grey clouds rolled in overnight, and by breakfast it was lashing it down. No way we were binning it off, though. Waterproofs on, we sloshed along the river path anyway, the trail turning into a proper quagmire. Monty loved it, turning into a mud monster, while I slipped arse-over-tit on a slick bank – gentle reminder that I’m not as nimble as I was at 25. We adapted, sticking to higher paths through the trees dripping with rain, spotting kingfishers darting about. It was grim at times, but there’s something magical about a soggy hike here; the Severn’s moods make every step an adventure.

By afternoon, it cleared just enough for a shorter jaunt to the nearby harbour, dodging puddles and chatting to a local fisherman about the tides. We even glimpsed what they reckon was Drake’s old lodging spot – history right there in the mist. Back at the cottage, peeling off wet layers by the fire, I had one of those reflective moments: holidays like this aren’t about perfect plans, are they? It’s the weather flipping the script, forcing you to improvise, that sticks with you. We did it all again the next day – sun one minute, squalls the next – hiking the point again at low tide, chasing the light.

Left feeling utterly recharged, muddy boots and all. If you fancy walks that’ll test your resolve and reward your soul, this neck of the woods near Blakeney is pure gold. Just pack extra socks.