I’ll never forget the drive down to Weymouth last summer – me behind the wheel of our battered old estate car, the kids bickering in the back over who got the last Haribo, and then, just past Dorchester, we hit a proper downpour. The windscreen wipers were going like the clappers, and I nearly missed the turning for Warmwell, splashing through a massive puddle that soaked a bloke on a bike. Typical me, turning a simple two-hour journey into a minor adventure. Still, as we crested the hill and spotted the lake glinting below, my heart lifted. I’d been buzzing about this holiday for weeks, picturing lazy days by the water, and pulling up to our spot felt like arriving somewhere special right from the off.

Set against the calm shimmer of the lake, our place was a cracking waterside retreat, perfect for our lot – five bedrooms, all cosy and inviting. Stepping into the light-filled entrance hall, it opened up into this massive open-plan living space at the back, with floor-to-ceiling glass that made the outdoors feel part of the house. There was a log burner for chillier nights, a sleek kitchen, and a twelve-seater dining table begging for family feasts. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz on the terrace, watching the sun dip over the water. Bliss.

But this is Britain, innit? Weather’s the boss, and our week was a right mix of it. Day one dawned bright and breezy – ideal for a hike along the lakeside paths at Silverlake. We wandered the nature trails, spotting herons and dragonflies, the kids charging ahead like feral explorers. It was flat and easy, perfect for building up an appetite before fish and chips from the on-site van. I even managed a cheeky dip in the lake afterwards, though emerging blue-lipped and shivering had the family in stitches. “Dad, you look like a drowned Smurf!” one of them quipped.

Come day three, though, the skies turned moody. Grey clouds rolled in thick as fog, and what was meant to be a jaunt over to Warmwell’s quieter woodland paths turned into a soggy slog. We’d packed waterproofs, but the rain hammered down, turning trails into streams. Plans for a picnic at the top? Scrapped. Instead, we squelched back, laughing about our drowned-rat impressions, and holed up by the log burner with hot mugs of tea and board games. It forced us to slow down, you know? Made me reflect a bit – rushing about on hikes is grand, but those rainy afternoons indoors, just chatting rubbish and playing Cluedo, were the real glue for the family.

Next morning, miracle of miracles, blue skies again. We tackled the loop around the lake, pushing further to the fringe of woods where the paths get a tad steeper – nothing too gnarly, but enough to feel accomplished with views back over the water. Even spotted a kingfisher darting about. Weather flipped like that all week: glorious rambles one day, impromptu den-building under the terrace the next when it lashed it down. By the end, I was knackered but chuffed – those hikes, rain or shine, stitched the holiday together. Weymouth’s got that magic for walkers; you just roll with the weather, and it delivers. Can’t wait to go back.