I’ll never forget the drive down to Porlock Weir – a proper faff from the M5, navigating those twisty Exmoor lanes with the satnav losing signal every five minutes. We’d packed for a spot of coastal bliss, me and my other half, dreaming of salty sea air and endless horizon views. But no, about ten miles out, we hit a cow on the road – well, not hit, thank goodness, just a massive bovine blockade courtesy of some free-roaming Exmoor beasties. Heart in mouth, we waited while a local farmer herded it off with a few choice whistles. Classic Somerset welcome, that.

Pulling up at last, the anticipation bubbled over. There it was, this cosy dog-friendly studio apartment right by the harbour, all quaint and inviting with that perfect harbourside perch. First impressions? Spot on. Peeking out the window to fishing boats bobbing and gulls wheeling about – felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard, and our spaniel was already wagging like mad at the door.

We’d come for walks, proper ones along the South West Coast Path, that legendary trail snaking through the cliffs. Day one dawned bright, blue skies begging for action. We tackled the short but steep jaunt up to Culbone, just a couple of miles along the path, with the sea crashing below and heather blooming purple on the hills. Proper leg-burner, but the views over the Bristol Channel made it worth every puff. Stopped for a brew at a clifftop bench, watching tankers glide by – pure magic.

British weather, though? It’s got a mind of its own. Next morning, we planned the bigger hike to Porlock itself, weaving through woods and past smugglers’ coves. Set off optimistic, but halfway, the clouds rolled in like uninvited guests. Mist turned to drizzle, then a full-on downpour that had us sheltering under a gnarly oak, laughing at our sodden state. “This is character-building,” I joked, while secretly cursing my optimism about packing just one light fleece. Plan B: a muddy scramble back to the studio, where we dried off by the window, watching the harbour turn steely grey and dramatic. Turned out brilliant, though – cosied up with tea and biscuits, spotting seals popping up like cheeky locals.

By afternoon, the sun cheekily peeked out, so we ventured a gentler loop around the weir itself, puddles reflecting the rainbow. The weather flips kept us on our toes, forcing shorter ambles along the pebble beach or up to the woods behind, where bluebells nodded in the breeze. One evening, post-rain glow, we caught a double rainbow arching right over the path – made me pause for a proper think. Here I was, mid-forties, faffing about with forecasts instead of just embracing the chaos. Life’s too short not to get a bit damp for those moments.

All in, those walks – rain-lashed or radiant – were the heart of it. The studio’s spot meant we could dash back anytime the skies scowled, front-row to the harbour’s ever-changing moods. Left feeling recharged, wiser about packing extra layers, and already plotting the next soggy adventure. Somerset’s coast doesn’t do predictable, and that’s just how I like it.