I finally made it to Lodge 40 at Retallack Resort near St Columb Major after a right faff of a drive down from Bristol. It was one of those classic Cornish journeys – narrow lanes twisting like a drunkard's scribble, past endless fields of tatties and the odd cream tea sign teasing me from afar. About ten miles out, I had my insignificant mishap: a rogue seagull decided my windscreen was its personal canvas, splattering it with what looked like Jackson Pollock's worst effort. I pulled over near Padstow for a quick wipe with a soggy tissue, chuckling to myself about how even the birds here are proper artists. By the time I rolled up to the lodge in the late afternoon, the sun was peeking through like it was apologising for the gloom ahead.

First impressions? Blimey, Lodge 40 is a proper gem – a cosy wooden lodge plonked right in the heart of Retallack's grounds, with that welcoming hot tub bubbling away on the deck like it knew I needed unwinding. It's all Scandinavian vibes inside: piney walls, a squishy sofa begging for a cuppa, and a kitchen kitted out enough to rustle up a pasty without feeling like a numpty. The views from the patio stretch over the resort's lakes and rolling green bits, with the faint hum of families splashing about in the distance. I dumped my bags, cracked open a tin of cider from the offy, and thought, "This is it – three days of proper Cornwall chilling."

But oh, the weather. Day one dawned with that deceptive Cornish blue sky, crisp and inviting, so I laced up my boots for a wander around the resort's paths. Retallack's got these cracking trails looping the lakes – easy-going strolls through wildflowers and past little bridges where ducks quack judgmentally at you. I clocked a good five miles, feeling smug as I snapped pics of the spa pools glinting in the sun. Lunch was a cheeky sausage roll from the on-site café, eaten on a bench while watching kids zoom down the water slides. Pure bliss, or so I thought.

Come afternoon, the British weather pulled its classic switcheroo. One minute I'm striding along the edge of the lakes, breathing in that salty-tangy air; the next, the clouds rolled in thicker than my nan's fruitcake. Fat raindrops started, turning the paths to mud slides. I dashed back to the lodge, soaked to the skin, laughing like a loon as I squelched indoors. Plan A – a longer hike over to the nearby dunes – was scuppered. Instead, I fired up the wood burner (cheers to the complimentary logs), brewed a builder's tea, and watched the deluge from the window. The hot tub called, but even that felt dodgy in the downpour – I wasn't about to prune up like a sultana just yet.

Day two, the forecast promised "bright intervals," which in Cornwall-speak means "brace yourself." Sure enough, morning brought a misty drizzle, so I opted for a shorter loop around the resort's woodland edges – think fern-choked paths and the odd buzzard overhead, eyeing me like I was lunch. It was magical in that damp, earthy way, with puddles reflecting the grey sky like moody abstract art. Halfway round, the sun broke through, turning everything steamy and golden. I pushed on, extending the walk to skirt the lakes again, dodging puddles the size of Cornwall itself. By the time I looped back, knackered but buzzing, the rain had returned with a vengeance. Back at the lodge, I reflected gently over a pasty: life's a bit like these hikes, innit? You set off with grand plans, but the weather – or whatever curveballs come – forces you to adapt, savour the soggy bits, and appreciate the dry spells all the more.

Third day was much the same whirlwind: a brisk dawn tramp along the resort trails, mist lifting to reveal dew-kissed grass, only for squalls to chase me home. Each shift in the weather turned my ambles into mini-adventures – slipping on slick mud (nearly ended up in a bush, proper Benny Hill moment), spotting a fox scarper into the undergrowth, or just standing still as the rain drummed a rhythm on my hood. Lodge 40 was the perfect base: warm, dry, with that hot tub finally getting a go during a rare sunny patch. Stepping out into the bubbles, steam rising like a sauna dream, I felt utterly content. Cornwall's walks, weather and all, had me hooked – a reminder that the best holidays are the ones where you roll with the rain. Can't wait to go back.