We’d only just pulled into the little gravel drive at Westholme Lodge when the sat-nav cheerfully announced we’d arrived—two minutes after I’d already clipped the wing mirror on the gatepost. Nothing broken, just a bright red scratch and an instant reminder that reversing in a strange place never ends well for me. Still, the cottage itself looked every bit as cosy as the pictures: whitewashed walls, a neat little porch, and that unmistakable whiff of salt on the breeze.

By the time we’d dragged the bags inside and found the kettle, the sun had decided to play ball. The forecast had promised a “chance of showers,” which in Somerset terms usually means you’ll get nicely damp before lunch, so we laced up our boots straight away and set off along the coastal path that starts almost at the bottom of the lane.

The trail hugs the low cliffs above a stretch of pebbly beach, and the tide was well out, leaving wide, firm sand perfect for a proper stride. We’d planned a gentle wander as far as the next cove, maybe an hour each way, but the sky had other ideas. Ten minutes after we passed the old lime kiln the first fat drops began to fall. Within moments the drizzle turned into proper West Country rain—steady, polite, but insistent. We ducked under a handy hawthorn and watched the sea turn from slate to pewter while we debated whether to press on or retreat for tea and cake.

In the end the rain won, but only just. We squelched back along the same path, boots now making satisfying little sucking noises with every step, and arrived at the lodge looking like a pair of slightly soggy spaniels. The porch proved its worth; we peeled off waterproofs, left them dripping on the hooks, and settled on the bench with mugs of builder’s tea, watching the showers sweep across the bay in theatrical grey curtains.

It struck me, sitting there with steam rising from my cup, how often our best-laid plans in this country amount to little more than optimistic guesses. I’d come down intending to tick off long coastal walks and maybe even a sunset paddle, yet here we were, happily defeated by a perfectly ordinary Somerset shower. And somehow that felt exactly right. The cottage, with its dry socks warming on the radiator and the sound of rain on the roof, seemed to understand that sometimes the best adventures are the ones that never quite happen the way you pictured them.