I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, waterproofs, and enough crisps to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive tailback just past Dorchester. Rain hammered the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and I was convinced we’d miss our check-in. But hey, a quick detour through some back lanes, a shared thermos of tea, and we rolled up to this cracking third-floor penthouse apartment bang on time, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz.

First impressions? Blimey, what a spot. Perched high overlooking the harbour, it’s got this fabulous open-plan living-dining room where you flop on the sofa and watch boats bobbing about like they’re in their own little world. Sleek kitchen too – perfect for knocking up a fry-up after a damp tramp. Two bedrooms for our little crew of four, lift access so no one’s huffing up stairs with luggage, and underfloor heating that’s an absolute godsend when Dorset’s weather turns biblical. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of fizz, and just soaked in the view. Felt like we’d struck gold.

Next morning, we laced up our boots for a proper Jurassic Coast hike – aiming for the coastal path towards Nothe Fort, that sturdy old landmark guarding the harbour entrance. Sun was peeking out, sea sparkling like it does in those postcards, so we wandered along the esplanade, past families building sandcastles on the beach and ice cream vans already doing a roaring trade. The path climbs gently, rewarding you with sweeping views over Weymouth Bay – you can see the Isle of Portland shimmering in the distance on a clear day. We paused for snaps, chuckling at a cheeky seagull eyeing our packed lunches.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, hasn’t it? By lunch, clouds rolled in thicker than my nan’s fruitcake, and the heavens opened. Plan A (epic cliff-top ramble) was scuppered; we dashed into the fort’s gardens instead, sheltering under massive rhododendron bushes while the rain bucketed down. Laughing like loons, we improvised with a muddy scramble around the headland paths, dodging puddles the size of ponds. It turned into one of those brilliant, soggy adventures you retell for years – who needs blue skies when you’ve got that fresh, ozone-y smell and waves crashing like thunder?

Day two, we tried the inland route towards Radipole Lake, figuring it’d be flatter and maybe drier. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Mist clung to the reeds like a bad habit, turning our nature-spotting walk into a comedy of errors – spotting herons one minute, slipping on wet grass the next. I had a proper moment there, trudging along with water squelching in my boots, thinking, ‘Blimey, why do I always kid myself I’m some intrepid hiker?’ But honestly, that’s the joy of it. No grand mountains, just these gentle Dorset trails that sneak up on you with their beauty, forcing you to slow down and chat properly.

By evening, back in the penthouse, we’d dry off, cook up pasta in that ace kitchen, and watch the harbour lights twinkle through the drizzle. Weather threw curveballs, sure, but it made the walks – short, sweet, and utterly Weymouth – all the more memorable. Can’t wait to go back and tempt fate with the forecasts again.