I’ll never forget the drive down to Shropshire last month – me, the sat-nav, and a thermos of tea that ended up all over the passenger seat thanks to a rogue pheasant darting across the A5. One minute I’m humming along, dreaming of cosy evenings by the fire, the next I’m mopping up PG Tips with a service station napkin. Still, by the time I pulled up to this charming little terraced cottage just outside Shrewsbury, I was buzzing with anticipation. Tucked away on a quiet lane with bay windows that practically winked hello, it had that perfect holiday-home vibe – compact, welcoming, and ready for whatever the weekend threw at me.

First impressions? Spot on. I dumped my bags, brewed a proper cuppa, and stepped out for a recce walk around the nearby Quarry. The sun was peeking through, turning the paths into gold, and I thought, “This is it – Shropshire’s going to be a walker’s paradise.” That first evening stroll along the River Severn was pure bliss: swans gliding by, families picnicking, and not a care in the world. I even spotted a heron that looked as surprised to see me as I was it.

Next morning, I laced up my boots for a proper hike up to Shrewsbury Castle – only a mile or so away, but with enough of a gentle incline to make you earn your bacon butty. The weather was holding, crisp and clear, with views over the looping river that had me grinning like an idiot. I wandered the castle grounds, imagining medieval knights plotting their next move, then looped back through the parks, feeling all virtuous and alive. Lunch at a little riverside café – ploughman’s and a pint of local ale – sorted.

But oh, British weather, you capricious beast. By afternoon, the skies turned moody, and a proper downpour hit just as I was eyeing up the path to the Abbey. Plan A – a scenic ramble through the town’s historic bits – was scuppered. I dashed back to the cottage, dripping like a drowned rat, and had a right giggle at myself in the mirror: hair plastered flat, boots caked in mud. Sat by the window with a book and biscuits, watching the rain lash down, I reflected on how I’m always the optimist packing shorts for Shropshire in October. Lesson learned? Probably not.

Come Sunday, the clouds parted like they’d had a telling off. I struck out again, this time along the towpath towards the railway village – easy going, with canal locks and narrowboats chugging past. The fresh post-rain air was invigorating, puddles reflecting the blue sky, and I pushed on to where the paths widen into meadows. A cheeky robin kept me company, hopping along like my personal guide. By teatime, legs happily aching, I was back at the cottage, knackered but chuffed.

Those walks – from sunny ambles to soggy scrambles – made the trip. Shropshire’s got this unpretentious charm on foot, especially when the weather keeps you on your toes. Next time, I’m packing better waterproofs. Or maybe just embracing the chaos. Cheers to more of that!