I’d barely made it out of London on that drizzly Friday morning when the first hiccup hit – my sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent me on a merry dance through some back lane in Norfolk, adding a good half-hour to the journey. Still, by early afternoon, I was trundling down the quiet lanes towards Beccles in Suffolk, the windscreen wipers doing their intermittent tango as the clouds hung low over the Waveney Valley. Winston Lodge, tucked away in a peaceful spot just outside town, appeared like a cosy beacon amid the rolling fields – a proper chocolate-box cottage with ivy-clinging stone walls, a thatched roof that looked like it’d been there since the Tudors, and a garden bursting with late-summer hollyhocks despite the gloom.

Pulling up on the gravel drive, I was hit with that instant holiday glow. The host, a cheery chap called Mike, handed over the keys with a wink and a warning: “Mind the weather, love – she’s a fickle one round here.” Fickle? Understatement of the year. I dumped my bags in the lounge, with its beamed ceiling, squishy sofas, and a wood-burner begging to be lit, then laced up my wellies for a first exploratory potter. The lodge backs straight onto footpaths that snake through the Suffolk countryside – perfect for shaking off the drive. I aimed for the nearby Waveney River trail, a gentle two-mile loop I’d spotted on the Ordnance Survey map in the welcome folder.

The first leg was pure bliss. Sun peeked through like it was auditioning for a better gig, turning the mustard-yellow rape fields into a glowing carpet. Skylarks twittered overhead, and I startled a few woolly sheep who eyed me suspiciously from behind a drystone wall. Suffolk’s paths are brilliant like that – proper public rights of way, signposted with those classic yellow arrows, weaving past ancient hedgerows heavy with blackberries. I munched a few (after checking for spitters, naturally), grinning like an idiot at the simplicity of it all. Winston Lodge felt like the ideal base: close enough to pop back for a brew, yet remote enough to pretend you’re in the middle of nowhere.

But oh, the weather – that great British leveller. Halfway round, the sky turned from hopeful blue to moody slate in about five minutes flat. Fat raindrops plopped down, then it was a proper deluge, wind whipping the trees into a frenzy. I hunkered under an oak, hood up, laughing at myself for not packing the waterproof trousers. Plans for a longer hike along the riverbank to Geldeston Lock? Scrubbed. Instead, I squelched back to the lodge, dripping puddles in the porch. Mike was right; Suffolk’s microclimates are legendary – one minute basking, the next biblical.

Undaunted, I fired up the Aga for tea and scones (proper clotted cream from the local farm shop in Beccles, five minutes’ drive away), then eyed the window as the rain eased to a misty drizzle. By late afternoon, it had cleared enough for another go – this time a shorter amble along the lodge’s private lane to a hidden spinney, where blue tits flitted about like feathered acrobats. The air post-rain was crisp, scented with wet earth and wild mint, and I paused on a stile, watching the clouds scud over the valley. That’s when it hit me, a quiet moment of reflection amid the huffing cows: how often do we bolt through life at full pelt? Here, forced to adapt to the whims of wind and water, I felt properly unplugged, content in my squelchy socks.

Saturday dawned with more of the same meteorological madness – a teasing glimpse of sun luring me out for a circular walk towards the Commons, those expansive grassy expanses dotted with gorse and grazing ponies. Three miles of undulating paths, with views back to Winston Lodge’s chimney puffing welcoming smoke. But midway, hailstones the size of marbles bounced off my hood, turning the trail to mud. I pivoted sharpish, chuckling at my sodden trainers, and retreated for a fireside read. Sunday’s farewell hike was kinder: a breezy stroll by the Waveney’s reeds, spotting herons and maybe a kingfisher if I was lucky, before packing up with that reluctant holiday-end pang.

Winston Lodge nailed it for a weather-whipped walking weekend – cosy retreat when the elements turned nasty, gateway to Suffolk’s timeless trails when they played nice. If you fancy ditching the grind for hikes dictated by the heavens, book it. Just pack extra socks.