I’ll never forget the drive down to Pembrokeshire – a proper British road trip with all the trimmings. We piled into the car in Cardiff, full of beans after stocking up on pasties and crisps, only for the sat-nav to chuck us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire just past Narberth. Cue a hilarious five-point turn in the rain, with me yelling directions from the passenger seat while my other half pretended not to panic. But we made it, emerging onto that quiet country lane near Cosheston, hearts racing a bit, anticipation bubbling up as the cottage came into view. It’s a cosy little thing, all homely charm tucked away from the world, with the tidal river lapping right up to the roadside and the village pub just a stroll away. First impressions? Spot on – we were grinning like kids before we’d even unpacked.

The plan was simple: hike our socks off, rain or shine, because Pembrokeshire’s coastal paths are legendary. Day one dawned bright, so we legged it to Freshwater East, barely a ten-minute drive. That beach is a cracker – golden sands, dunes whispering in the breeze – and we followed the path up over the cliffs, puffing along with the sea crashing below. Seals bobbed about, and we felt like proper explorers, stopping for a brew at the little beach café. Pure bliss, that first hike, with the sun warming our faces and not a cloud in sight.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour. Next morning, the heavens opened, turning our ambitious trek to Broad Haven South into a comedy of errors. We donned waterproofs anyway, slipping and sliding down the lane to the car, then parking near the lily ponds for a soggy stomp along the path. The beach was windswept and wild, waves thundering in like they owned the place, but there’s something magical about it. We hunkered down in the tea room for cake and hot chocolate, plotting our next move. That afternoon, we pivoted to a gentle riverside wander near Cosheston, mud up to our ankles, laughing at how daft we looked in our cagoules. The rain eased just enough for us to spot herons and kingfishers darting along the tidal creek – unexpected gems that made the drenching worthwhile.

By mid-week, I was having a proper moment of reflection, sat on a bench overlooking Freshwater West (you know, the one from that pirate film), nursing a thermos of tea. Here I was, city slicker turned mud-splattered hiker, realising how these changeable days – sun one minute, squalls the next – force you to adapt and appreciate the quiet bits. We even braved a clifftop loop from Stackpole one drizzly evening, hearts pounding against the wind, rewarded with a rainbow arcing over the bay.

Back at the cottage each night, boots drying by the fire, we’d pore over maps for the morrow’s ramble. Whether dodging showers on the coastal path or embracing the downpours near the river, those hikes captured Pembrokeshire’s soul – rugged, unpredictable, utterly addictive. If you fancy ditching the gym for proper fresh air adventures, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return, come hell or high water.