I finally made it to Norfolk after a bit of a faff on the drive down from London. I'd packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to see me through a siege, but about 20 miles from Dereham, I managed to splash straight through a massive puddle left by overnight rain. Cue the windscreen wipers on full pelt and me swearing like a proper navvy while my passenger – my mate Dave, who I'd roped in for the three-day jaunt – laughed his socks off. "Classic British holiday start," he chuckled, as we arrived at Mead One sopping wet but in one piece.

Pulling up to the cottage just outside Dereham, I was chuffed to bits. It's one of those proper Norfolk hideaways – a cosy two-bed stone job nestled in the Breckland countryside, with a garden that backs onto open fields. The owner, a cheery local lass named Jenny, handed over the keys with a warning: "Weather's proper Norfolk today – sun one minute, squall the next." She wasn't kidding. We dumped our bags, brewed a cuppa in the surprisingly swish kitchen (complete with an Aga that looked like it could feed an army), and stepped out for our first hike, buzzing with that fresh-arrival energy.

First impressions? Pure bliss. We headed straight for the footpaths snaking off from the cottage door – no faffing with cars, just proper legwork through the meadows. Norfolk's flat as a pancake here, but that's the charm: endless skies and those big, breezy fields dotted with flint cottages. We ambled along the path towards the River Tud, about a mile off, chatting bollocks about work and plotting our pub lunch. The sun was cracking the flags, larks twittering overhead, and I felt that rare holiday glow – you know, when everything slots into place.

But oh, the weather. Halfway there, the sky turned biblical. One minute we're in T-shirts, stripping off layers; the next, a proper Norfolk downpour hits, sideways rain that soaks you to the knickers in seconds. We ducked under a massive oak, laughing hysterically as hailstones the size of marbles pelted down. "This is why we can't have nice things," Dave quipped, pulling his cagoule over his head like a monk's cowl. Me? I hadn't packed mine properly – rookie error – so I ended up looking like a drowned rat, improvising with a bin liner from the cottage. Light humour in the face of adversity, eh?

We pressed on, because that's the British way – moan, but never quit. The path turned muddy as sin, those classic Norfolk tractor ruts sucking at our wellies. By the time we reached the riverbank, the rain had buggered off, leaving a rainbow arching over the reeds. Magic. We picnicked on soggy sandwiches, watching herons stalk the shallows, and I had a proper moment of reflection there on a fallen log. Sat there, mud-splattered and chilled to the bone, I thought: life's too short for desk jobs and dull routines. This – the unpredictability, the camaraderie, the sheer daftness of battling the elements on a whim – this is what recharges the batteries. Dave caught me staring into the middle distance and ribbed me: "Oi, poet, fancy another brew back at base?"

Back at Mead One by early afternoon, we were knackered but buzzing. The cottage felt even more welcoming – we lit the wood burner (logs stacked neatly by the back door), dried off, and planned tomorrow's jaunt: a circular walk around the local nature reserve, maybe four miles of heathland and woods. But Norfolk weather had other ideas. As evening drew in, another squall rattled the windows, turning our grand plans into a cosy night in with board games and takeaways from the Dereham chippy. First day in, and already hooked on the rhythm: hike hard, adapt quick, laugh it off.

That initial taste of Mead One nailed it for me – a perfect base for Norfolk's walking wonders, where the weather's your cheeky co-conspirator, flipping scripts but never dulling the thrill. Can't wait for day two.