We’d barely left the M4 when the heavens opened, and of course I’d left the sat-nav instructions on the kitchen table back home. With rain hammering the windscreen and the wipers on double speed, we took a wrong turning near Brecon and ended up bouncing down a single-track lane that felt more like a stream than a road. By the time we pulled up outside 1 Bed Lodge in Lower Chapel, my shoes were squelching and I was laughing at myself for thinking three days in South Wales would be a gentle stroll in the sun.

The lodge itself looked wonderfully snug, tucked against a hillside with the Black Mountains rising behind it. Rain was still pelting the slate roof, but inside it felt instantly welcoming: a wood-burner already laid, thick curtains, and that faint smell of woodsmoke that always says “you’re safe now.” We dropped our bags, made a quick cuppa, and decided the weather couldn’t possibly last. Famous last words.

Next morning the clouds had cleared just enough to tempt us out. We set off on the track behind the lodge that leads up towards the lower slopes of Mynydd Epynt. The path was muddy in patches, but the views opened out across the valley, the hills rolling away in soft greens and purples. We hadn’t gone far before another shower swept in sideways, turning the track into a small river. Within minutes we were both soaked to the knees and grinning like idiots, because there’s something oddly cheering about being caught out by Welsh weather; it makes you feel properly alive.

We turned back, peeled off our wet layers by the stove, and spent the rest of the day watching the clouds chase each other across the sky from the little window seat. Every time the rain eased we’d think about venturing out again, only for another band of drizzle to drift over the ridge. In the end we stayed put, content with mugs of tea and the occasional dash outside to fetch more logs. It felt like a proper holiday rhythm: plans made, plans gently undone, and nobody minding in the slightest.

By the third morning the forecast looked almost promising, so we tried again, this time heading down the lane towards the little footpath that skirts the river. The water was running fast after all the rain, and the fields smelled fresh and green. We walked for a couple of miles, boots squelching companionably, stopping now and then to watch a red kite wheel overhead. Halfway along the path the sky darkened again, but this time we were ready; waterproofs on, hoods up, and we carried on anyway. There’s a quiet satisfaction in refusing to let the weather win completely.

Back at the lodge that evening, I sat with my feet up, watching the last of the light fade behind the hills. I realised I’d spent the whole weekend adapting rather than achieving, and it suited me more than I’d expected. The lodge had given us shelter without fuss, a warm base to return to after every drenching, and the hills had reminded me that sometimes the best adventures are the ones that don’t quite go to plan.