I’ll never forget the drive down to Worthing last month – what should’ve been a straightforward two hours from London turned into a comedy of errors when I took a wrong turn near Gatwick and ended up in a snarl of roadworks. Sat there tapping the steering wheel, thinking, “Brilliant, mate, you’ve turned a holiday into a sat-nav horror story.” But once I shook off the grumpiness and finally rolled into town, the sea air hit me like a tonic, and my heart lifted. There it was, our little beach house, all cosy and tucked right by the promenade – whitewashed charm with a cheeky balcony overlooking the waves. First impressions? Spot on. I was buzzing already, bags barely unpacked before I was plotting my coastal walks.

Day one dawned bright and breezy, perfect for a proper Sussex stride. I headed out along the promenade towards Goring Beach, that wide stretch of shingle where the sea sparkles like it’s showing off. The sun was out, warming my face as I dodged happy dog-walkers and families building sandcastles. It’s only a couple of miles, but with the tide rolling in and gulls wheeling overhead, it felt like a proper adventure. I even treated myself to fish and chips from a beach hut – proper cod, mind, none of that haddock nonsense – eaten on a bench with salt spray in the air. Bliss.

Come afternoon, though, the British weather decided to flex. Clouds rolled in thick as porridge, and suddenly it was lashing down. No point fighting it, so I dashed back to the house, brewed a massive pot of tea, and watched the storm from that balcony. Chuckling to myself, I thought, “This is peak me – all gung-ho for a hike, then curled up like a soggy spaniel.” It forced a bit of reflection, actually. I’m always chasing the next big ramble, but there’s something rather lovely about letting the rain dictate the pace. By evening, it cleared just enough for a twilight potter along the pier – Worthing’s old gem, lights twinkling against the grey sea. Magical, even if my trainers were still squelching.

Next morning, undeterred, I laced up for the real test: a hike up to the South Downs, just a short clifftop jaunt to High Salvington, no more than three miles out but with views that punch way above their weight. Blue skies again, thank goodness, and the paths were alive with wildflowers and butterflies. I puffed up the inclines, feeling alive with that proper fresh-air buzz, pausing at viewpoints to snap the coastline curving away like a postcard. But wouldn’t you know, halfway back, the heavens opened once more – proper biblical stuff. I hunkered under a tree, hood up, laughing at the absurdity. Sod’s law, innit? Instead of battling on, I rerouted to the beachfront, where the rain turned the waves wild and dramatic. Ended up in a seaside café, nursing a latte and plotting tomorrow’s drier route.

By the end of the week, I’d clocked miles of these weather-whipped walks – sunny strides along the beach, rainy rambles forcing me to improvise. Sussex nailed it: unpredictable, unpretentious, utterly addictive. Left me pondering how a bit of chaos makes the good bits shine brighter. Can’t wait to go back.