I’ll never forget the drive up from the Borders – we’d borrowed my mate’s old Fiesta, which decided to throw a right wobble just past the Pentland Hills, the windscreen wipers going berserk in a sudden downpour like they were auditioning for a rave. “This is it, then,” I muttered, wiping rain from my specs as we crawled into Edinburgh, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz. You know the feeling? City lights twinkling ahead, imagining cosy evenings ahead after a cracking walk. By the time we pulled up, the rain had eased, and there it was: a smart little terraced holiday flat in a quiet spot off the main drag, all welcoming with its fresh vibe and those big windows perfect for peeking at the street life.

First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, brewed a cuppa, and stepped out for a wander up to Arthur’s Seat – that massive lump of a hill right in the city, beckoning like an old friend. The sun even peeked out, turning Holyrood Park into this lush green playground. We huffed and puffed up the steady incline, chatting rubbish about work woes, the views unfolding like a postcard: the castle perched high, the Firth of Forth glinting in the distance. At the top, wind whipping our hair, I had one of those daft moments – gazing out, thinking, “Blimey, I’ve been grinding away at that desk job too long; need more of this.” Proper cheesy self-reflection, but hey, holidays do that.

Next morning, classic Scottish weather flipped the script. Grey skies rolled in overnight, and by breakfast, it was lashing it down – the kind of rain that soaks you through in seconds. No way we were binning the plans, though. We layered up in waterproofs (lesson learned: always pack the good coat) and headed for Calton Hill, just a short tramp away. It’s compact, that one – steep but doable, even in the deluge. Slipping on muddy paths, laughing as puddles splashed our jeans, we reached the top to find the monuments shrouded in mist, like something out of a gothic novel. Not the clearest views, but there’s magic in that wildness; the city below blurred into a shiny haze, and we felt alive, properly battered by the elements.

The weather kept us on our toes all week. One afternoon, it cleared just enough for a brilliant yomp along the Water of Leith walkway – that hidden gem snaking through the city, past wee bridges and under buzzing trees. Birds chirping, the river bubbling, total peace amid the urban hum. But come evening, another squall hit during our stroll to the Royal Mile. We dashed into a chippy for shelter, munching battered haddock while the rain hammered the window. “British weather’s a character builder,” I joked to Sarah, my other half, as we dashed back, drenched but grinning.

By the end, those walking adventures – good days triumphant, bad ones hilariously soggy – made the flat feel like a proper sanctuary. Feet aching, cheeks rosy from the wind, we’d collapse with a dram and plan the next tramp. Edinburgh’s got hikes on your doorstep like nowhere else; even when the skies turn nasty, it’s the best way to dive right in. Can’t wait to go back.