I’ll never forget the drive up to North Wales last month – me behind the wheel of our trusty old estate car, sat-nav chirping away like it knew better than the winding roads. We’d set off from Cheshire full of beans, dreaming of coastal walks and fresh sea air, but about halfway there, disaster struck. A sudden downpour turned the A55 into a skating rink, and I misjudged a roundabout, ending up with the wing mirror kissing a lorry’s bumper. No real damage, thank goodness, but it had us laughing nervously as we pulled over for a brew and a quick check. Still, by the time we trundled into that gorgeous coastal village, hearts were lifted. Spotting the steam train puffing along in the distance and the summer water taxi bobbing on the waves to Barmouth, I could already feel the anticipation bubbling – this was going to be proper.

The cottage we’d booked was a cosy little number, all welcoming and perfectly placed for popping down to the beach or the family play area. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags, grabbed our wellies, and headed straight out for a gentle stroll along the sandy shore at the end of the village. Craggy cliffs towered above, sea crashing in, and with the golf course and pubs just a hop away, it felt like we’d stumbled into paradise without the crowds.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a mind of its own, doesn’t it? Day one was glorious, blue skies begging for adventure. We tackled a cracking footpath along the Mawddach Estuary, that stunning stretch of water glittering like a mirror. Rambling countryside rolled out around us, gorse buzzing with bees, and we paused for sandwiches with views that made you forget the world. Proper invigorating, that – legs pumping, lungs full of salty air. I even managed a cheeky attempt at spotting seals, though I’m pretty sure that rock was just a rock.

Come day two, the heavens opened. Grey skies rolled in overnight, turning our planned cliff-top hike into a muddy slog. We’d eyed up a bridleway looping through the hills, perfect for cycling too, but nope – wind howling, rain lashing sideways. Laughing like idiots, we layered up and went for it anyway. Slipping and sliding along the coastal path, boots caked in Snowdonia sludge, we turned it into a comedy of errors. I took a tumble into a puddle worthy of a paddling pool, emerging like a drowned rat, while my other half valiantly pretended not to snigger. But you know what? Those grim-weather walks have their magic. The estuary looked wild and dramatic, cliffs shrouded in mist, and we had the whole place to ourselves. No fair-weather hikers in sight.

By day three, the sun peeked out, teasing us with a rainbow over the beach. We switched to a shorter cycle route along the coast, weaving past pony trekking spots and fishing boats, before another estuary wander. The weather flipped again that afternoon – hail, of all things! – forcing us into a cosy pub for chips and a pint, plotting our next damp dash.

Looking back, it’s funny how the rain shaped our holiday more than anything. Those changeable days taught me to embrace the chaos; no rigid plans, just boots on and out we go. North Wales walks in any weather? Absolute gold. We came home fitter, muddier, and grinning ear to ear. Can’t wait to go back.