I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – a proper British road trip gone slightly pear-shaped. We’d set off from Bristol full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav promising a smooth two hours along the A37. But halfway there, the heavens opened, turning the carriageway into a bit of a swimming pool. Cue the windscreen wipers on full pelt and me white-knuckling the wheel while the kids in the back moaned about soggy crisps. Still, as we crested the hill into Weymouth, the sun peeked out just enough to spark that flutter of excitement. Weymouth Bay stretched out like a postcard, all glittering water and that classic Dorset curve. We were buzzing to see our spot right on the Esplanade.

Pulling up, the first impressions were spot on. It’s a elegant first-floor flat in a grand old 1860s building – think high ceilings and loads of space, with two bedrooms that swallowed our bags without a fuss. The private balcony runs the whole length of the kitchen, dining and lounge, and mate, those 180-degree views over the bay had us grinning like idiots. We cracked open a bottle of fizz before we’d even unpacked, toasting the sea view as the light danced on the waves.

We’d planned a week of proper walking adventures, lacing up our boots to tackle the coastal paths around Weymouth. Day one was perfection – balmy sunshine, not a cloud in sight. We strolled straight out onto the Esplanade, past Nothe Fort with its cannons glinting, then looped round to the harbour where fishing boats bobbed and the air smelled of salt and chips. From there, it was up the South West Coast Path towards White Nothe, that cracking cliff walk with Jurassic rocks plunging into the sea. The views were mental – Portland Bill poking out in the distance, seals barking below. We picnicked on the balcony that evening, feet up, watching the sunset paint the bay pink. Bliss.

But this is Britain, innit? The weather had other ideas by day three. One minute we’re plotting a hearty hike over to Ringstead Bay, scrambling down those steep paths for a swim; the next, it’s lashing down with horizontal rain that turned the cliffs into waterfalls. Plans scuppered, we dashed back along the beach, sand whipping our legs, laughing like loons as we sheltered under the pier. Undeterred, we switched to town ambles – weaving through the Georgian streets behind the Esplanade, popping into quirky shops for pasties and dodging the puddles. The rain even added charm, turning the bay into a steamy mirror reflecting the Pavilion’s lights.

By the end, those weather whims had us improvising like pros – shorter loops around Radipole Lake on sunnier spells, spotting kingfishers darting through the reeds, or just balcony lounging with brews when the gales howled. It got me reflecting, mid-sip of morning coffee as the sun finally broke through again: holidays aren’t about sticking to the script, are they? They’re about rolling with the squalls, getting a bit windswept, and coming home with stories that stick. Weymouth delivered on all that, and we’re already plotting a return when the forecasts align.