We set off from the M4 in good spirits, only to discover I’d left the cottage keys in the glovebox and had to double back twenty minutes later, which set the tone for the sort of relaxed, slightly scatter-brained weekend we’d been promising ourselves. The lane that leads up to Brown Hare Shepherds Hut is narrow enough to make you check the wing mirrors every few seconds, but once we pulled into the little gravel clearing, the view of the Brecon Beacons rolling away on every side made the detour instantly forgivable.

The hut itself sits in a sheltered fold of the hillside, its dark timber boards blending into the bracken. Inside, the wood-burner was already laid, the kettle was on the little gas hob, and a couple of Ordnance Survey maps lay open on the table as though the previous guests had been planning their next walk over breakfast. We dumped our bags, pulled on boots, and decided to stretch our legs before the light went.

That first afternoon the sky was the sort of washed-out blue that promises nothing and delivers everything. We wandered along the old drovers’ track behind the hut, the path climbing gently until we could look back down at the tiny wooden roof nestled among the sheep. Halfway up, the clouds thickened without warning, and a sharp little shower sent us scurrying under a lone hawthorn for shelter. We stood there laughing, hoods up, watching the rain chase itself across the valley like someone had tipped a bucket over the hills. Five minutes later the sun was out again, the bracken steaming, and we carried on as though nothing had happened.

The next morning we woke to a proper Welsh downpour drumming on the tin roof. Plans to tackle a longer circuit over the ridge were quietly abandoned in favour of a shorter loop along the river that skirts the lower fields. Even so, the path was slick with mud and the occasional rogue gust tried to turn our map inside out. We didn’t mind; there’s something companionable about walking in the rain when you know a warm hut and dry socks are waiting. We stopped on a stone bridge to watch the water surge beneath us, then turned back when the clouds darkened again.

By the time we reached the hut the rain had eased to a soft drizzle, and we spent the rest of the afternoon watching it drift across the hills from the little porch. The weather had dictated every decision, yet somehow the day felt fuller for it. We cooked a late lunch on the two-ring hob, the windows steaming up while the hills outside kept changing colour with each passing cloud.

On our final morning the wind had dropped and a pale sun lit the dew on the grass. We set out early for a last short walk, intending only to circle the neighbouring fields, but the clear air tempted us higher. We followed a sheep track until the ground levelled into a broad plateau, the whole of the central Beacons spread out in front of us. A single dark cloud still hung over the northern ridge, but it never reached us; instead it gave the light that particular luminous quality you only get after rain. We stood there for a long time, boots damp, jackets tied around our waists, quietly grateful that the weather had kept us flexible.

Packing up later felt oddly reluctant. The little hut had been more than just a roof; it had been the place we returned to each time the hills decided to test us. As we drove away down the narrow lane, the first spots of rain hit the windscreen again, and I found myself smiling at how completely the weather had run the show.