I’ll never forget the drive up to the Peak District last month – me, my partner, and a boot full of crisps and thermos flasks, blasting along the M6 until we veered off towards Cheshire East. About halfway there, disaster struck: a massive downpour turned the motorway into a skating rink, and I managed to splash a full puddle over a lorry driver who gave me the evils in his mirror. Heart in my mouth, I pulled over for a brew to steady the nerves, but by the time we arrived, the sun was peeking out like it hadn’t a care in the world. Honestly, that first glimpse of the cottage had me grinning like an idiot – this fine place offers comfortable living in a historic setting, next to the former Cheshire Hunt Inn from which the Hunt used to ride. It enjoys wonderful country views and is in walking distance of the old mill village of Bollington. Proper picture-perfect, with rolling hills stretching out like a postcard.

We couldn’t wait to lace up our boots and explore. Day one was all blue skies, so we headed straight out for a gentle amble down to Bollington. The path winds along the Macc Canal, past those old mills humming with history, and the air’s so fresh it fair tickles your lungs. We stopped at the Adelphi Mill for a nose around – it’s one of those spots where you half-expect to see Victorian workers spilling out for tea break. By lunch, we were at the White Nancy folly up on the hill, puffing a bit but rewarded with views over the Goyt Valley that make you feel tiny in the best way. Sat there with our sarnies, watching sheep dot the landscape, I had one of those quiet moments: when did I last switch off like this? Work’s been a right treadmill lately, and it hit me how daft it is not to make time for proper escapes.

Of course, this is Britain, so the weather had other ideas. Next morning, we planned a cracking hike up to Sponds Hill – about three miles of steady climb with panoramic sweeps over the peaks. But no, the clouds rolled in thick as clag, turning the trail into a muddy slip-and-slide. We pressed on for a bit, hoods up and giggling like kids as the rain pelted us sideways, but when lightning started cracking overhead, common sense kicked in. Sheltered under some trees, we rerouted to a lower loop around Kerridge Hill instead – shorter, but still with those lush valleys and babbling brooks that the Peaks do so well. Turned out brilliant; the storm cleared just in time for a rainbow arching right over Bollington as we trudged back, soaked to the skin but buzzing.

The rest of the week was a proper dance with the forecast. One day, glorious sun lured us along the Peak Forest Tramway path – flat and easy, perfect for spotting buzzards wheeling above. Another, horizontal gales forced us into a cosy circuit of the local lanes, dodging puddles the size of ponds and pretending we were explorers charting new territory. By the end, our wellies were caked, but we’d notched up miles of fresh air and a few hilarious soggy selfies. Staying put in that cottage, with its cracking views to wake up to, made every weather whim feel like part of the adventure. Can’t wait to go back – next time, I’m packing extra socks.