I’ll never forget the drive to Monterey House (6) in Thornham, Norfolk – a proper Norfolk jaunt that started with a comedy of errors. I’d packed the night before, chucked in my wellies and a flask of tea, thinking I was sorted for a three-day escape. But halfway along the A149 from King’s Lynn, about 20 minutes out, I realised I’d left my phone charger at home. Typical me, rushing off like a headless chicken. No biggie, I thought – Norfolk’s not the sort of place that demands constant scrolling anyway. The sat-nav was already moaning about signal, so I switched it off, wound down the window, and let the salty sea air slap me awake. Flat fields stretched out, dotted with those massive skies that make you feel tiny, and before I knew it, I was pulling up outside this cracking little detached cottage, right on the edge of the village.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. Monterey House (6) sits tucked away in a quiet spot, all cosy stone and pitched roof, with a private hot tub peeking out the back like a cheeky invitation to unwind. I arrived mid-morning on a day that promised blue skies – rare for Blighty, but Norfolk was delivering. The owner had left a basket of local treats: fresh scones, Norfolk lavender shortbread, and a bottle of something fizzy. I dumped my bags, laced up my boots, and headed straight out for a recce walk. Thornham’s perfect for it – you’re steps from the coastal path, with Holme Dunes Nature Reserve just a gentle two-mile stroll away. No cars needed; it’s all about those legs and lungs.

Day one was a dream. Sun blazing, I ambled along the path towards Gore Point, the North Sea sparkling like it was on holiday too. Marshland buzzed with skylarks, and I spotted a seal bobbing about offshore – proper wildlife telly stuff without the David Attenborough voiceover. The wind was fresh but friendly, whipping up just enough to cool the cheeks. I picnicked on a driftwood log, munching a cheese ploughman’s from the village shop, feeling like I’d cracked the code to proper relaxation. Back at the cottage by tea-time, I fired up the hot tub under a golden sunset. First impressions didn’t get much better.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Day two dawned with a cheeky drizzle, turning my planned long hike to Titchwell Marsh into a squelchy adventure. I layered up in waterproofs (lesson learned: always pack the full armoury) and set off anyway. The path from Thornham to Brancaster’s shingle beach is a cracker, about three miles of crunching pebbles and marram grass, but the rain turned it into a full-on mudfest. My boots gained half a stone in clay, and I did that ridiculous Norfolk slip-slide dance, arms flailing like a startled flamingo. Laughed my socks off – or I would have, if they weren’t soaked. The clouds hung low, moody and dramatic, but it forced me to slow down, really take in the textures: the gnarled hawthorn hedges, the sheep eyeing me suspiciously from the dunes.

By afternoon, the heavens proper opened, biblical stuff. Plans for a sunset yomp? Scrubbed. Instead, I retreated to Monterey’s lounge, cuppa in hand, watching the downpour lash the windows. It was oddly brilliant – cosying up with a book by the wood burner, listening to the sea grumble. Made me reflect a bit, you know? We’re all so hell-bent on ticking off hikes and views, but sometimes the weather’s way of saying “chill out” is the best bit. Norfolk doesn’t do Instagram-perfect; it’s raw, changeable, and all the richer for it.

Day three teased with half-hearted sun, so I squeezed in a final potter along the lanes back to Holme-next-the-Sea, dodging puddles and breathing in that post-storm ozone. Monterey House (6) had well and truly won me over – a perfect base for weather-whipped walks, mishaps and all. If you fancy three days of coastal chaos with a comfy retreat, book it. You won’t regret getting a bit soggy.