I’ll never forget the drive to Barmouth last month – we’d packed the car to the gills with wellies, waterproofs and enough tea bags to last a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a cheeky detour through some narrow lanes near Tywyn. The rain was lashing down, and just as we thought we’d escaped, a sheep decided to photobomb the windscreen. Heart in mouth, we swerved, laughed it off, and finally rolled into Aberdovey as the clouds parted like they’d been waiting for us. Spotting our holiday home perched up high, I felt that proper buzz of anticipation – you know, that tingle when you’re about to unlock a whole week of proper downtime.

It’s this cracking large house, dead cosy and just right for our lot: me, the missus, our two lads and the dog. Perfect spot for a family do, with room for six and those jaw-dropping views over the Dyfi Estuary, the sea and the southern edges of Snowdonia right from the windows. First impressions? Magic. We dumped the bags, cracked open a brew, and gazed out at the boats bobbing below – felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard.

We’d come for the walks, obviously – Barmouth’s a walker’s dream, with paths snaking everywhere. Day one, the weather gods smiled: blue skies, so we legged it down to the estuary for an easy stroll along the sands. The lads were off like rockets, chucking stones into the waves, while we ambled, chatting nonsense and breathing in that salty air. It’s dead flat there, perfect for shaking off the drive, and the views up to the hills had us plotting bigger adventures.

Come day two, classic British weather flipped the script. Grey skies rolled in, wind howling like a banshee, so our planned hike up to the cliffs got binned. Instead, we rugged up and tackled the path along the Dysynni Valley – not too taxing, but with enough ups and downs to feel like we’d earned our pasties from the local bakery. The rain held off, but the mud? Treacherous. I slipped arse-over-tit into a puddle, emerging like a drowned rat while the family howled. “Graceful as ever, Dad,” they chorused. Still, it was brilliant – that fresh, earthy smell after a downpour, estuary sparkling through the mist.

By midweek, the sun teased us out for the big one: a clifftop ramble towards the headland, peering into Snowdonia’s fringes without straying too far. Elevated paths like the ones from our spot gave panoramic payoffs – mountains hazy in the distance, gulls wheeling overhead. But wouldn’t you know, halfway round, the heavens opened. We hunkered under a tree, sharing soggy flapjacks, proper bonding stuff. It got me thinking, doesn’t it? These holidays aren’t about conquering peaks; they’re about rolling with the weather, the mud and the mishaps. Makes you appreciate the good days more.

Last morning, a sneaky clear spell let us nip down for a beach wander, toes in the surf, before packing up. Barmouth – or Aberdovey, take your pick – nailed it for us. If you fancy hikes that bend to the British elements, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return.