I finally made it to Barmouth after a bit of a faff on the A496 – nothing major, just me spilling my entire flask of tea all over the passenger seat about five miles out from Tywyn. Classic me, innit? Arms flailing, swearing under my breath while trying not to veer off into a hedge. By the time I pulled up to the 4 Bed Lodge in Tywyn, I was damp, caffeine-deprived, and proper ready for a cuppa that didn't involve mopping up.

The lodge itself? What a belter of a first impression. Tucked just off the main drag in Tywyn, it's this cosy wooden number with a wraparound deck that screams "kick back with a view." I arrived mid-afternoon on a day that started with blue skies over the Mawddach Estuary – you know, that classic Welsh tease where the sun's out, lambs are frolicking on the hills, and you're fooling yourself into thinking it's summer. Unloaded my bags in two ticks, chucked on my wellies, and headed straight out for a leg-stretch along the coastal path towards Barmouth. It's only a couple of miles, dead flat to start, hugging the shoreline with the Irish Sea lapping on one side and those rolling Snowdonia foothills on the other. Proper idyllic, with gulls wheeling overhead and the odd dog-walker giving a cheery nod.

First hike was a dream – or so I thought. I'd planned a good hour's yomp to Barmouth Bridge, that iconic wooden viaduct where the steam trains chug over. Weather was holding, breeze fresh off the water, and I was striding out like I was on some BBC walking show. Snapped a few pics of the beach huts in their pastel glory, watched a seal pop its head up near the rocks (or was it driftwood? Eyesight's not what it was). Got to Barmouth with the sun glinting off the waves, grabbed a quick ice cream from one of those beachfront kiosks – vanilla with a flake, none of your fancy flavours – and felt like I'd cracked holiday mode.

But oh, British weather, you capricious sod. By evening, as I wandered back to the lodge, the clouds rolled in like uninvited guests. A fine drizzle started, turning the path into a slippery slide. I ducked into the Tywyn high street for a pasty from the bakery – steaming hot, cheese and onion, the kind that warms you from the inside out – and scarpered back to the deck. Sat there under the lodge's overhang, rain pattering on the roof, sipping builder's tea and thinking, "This is it, proper Wales." The lodge felt even more welcoming then, with its big open-plan living area, wood-burner begging to be lit, and windows framing the greying estuary. Cosy as a hug from your nan.

Day two dawned with a vengeance – proper lashing rain, wind howling like a banshee. My grand plan for the Dysynni Valley hike? Scrubbed. Instead, we pivoted to a "micro-adventure," as I like to call it: a soggy stomp along the beach from Tywyn to the edge of Barmouth. Wellies sinking into wet sand, hood up against the squalls, but there was something brilliant about it. The sea was wild, waves crashing like they were auditioning for a disaster film, and I had the place to myself bar a hardy fisherman sorting his pots. Laughed out loud when a gust nearly bowled me over – had to grab a rock to steady myself, feeling like a right numpty but alive with it. Back at the lodge by lunch, dripping but chuffed, I dried off and reflected on how these weather whims force you to adapt. Me, the eternal planner, faffing about with Ordnance Survey maps, suddenly just... going with it. Maybe that's the point of these getaways – not the perfect hike, but the ones that catch you out and make you grin anyway.

Third day, the sun peeked out as if to apologise, so we nipped down for a final coastal wander, rainbow arcing over the hills. First impressions of the lodge? Spot on – it's the perfect base for these walking larks, rain or shine. Three days in, and I'm already plotting a return. Who's with me?