I’d barely got the car out of the roundabout at Brecon before the heavens decided to test my patience. A sudden downpour turned the A40 into a blur of spray and wipers, and I managed to miss the turning for Ty Gwenyn twice, ending up in a farmyard with a bemused sheep for company. By the time I found the right lane and bumped up the gravel track, the rain had eased into a soft drizzle and the little stone cottage came into view, tucked against the hillside with smoke already curling from the chimney.

The owner had left the key in the usual spot and a note promising “dry boots and a kettle that works,” which felt like a small mercy after the drive. Inside, everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh linen. I dumped my rucksack, pulled on waterproof trousers that were already damp from the earlier downpour, and decided the weather couldn’t be trusted to stay kind for long. Within half an hour I was on the lane again, heading for the short loop up to the common that the cottage guide had marked with a wobbly biro arrow.

The path climbed steeply at first, then levelled into open grass where the wind tugged at my hood and the clouds kept shifting from grey to pale silver. I’d planned to reach the trig point and loop back via the stream, but the mist rolled in halfway and the view disappeared, so I turned around earlier than intended. The damp air carried the smell of wet bracken and sheep, and by the time I reached the cottage gate my boots were heavy with mud and my cheeks were tingling from the wind. I stood on the doorstep laughing at myself, dripping onto the mat while the kettle clicked on again.

The next morning the forecast promised a window of brightness, so I set off early for the riverside path that runs behind the village. It started sunny enough for me to unzip my jacket, but within twenty minutes the sky had gone the colour of pewter and fat drops began to spatter the river. I sheltered under an old stone bridge, watching the water rise and wondering why I never learn to pack an extra layer. When the shower passed I carried on, squelching through the fields until I found a fallen log where I could eat the cheese sandwich I’d made at the cottage. A robin watched me from a fence post, probably judging my soggy socks.

By afternoon the rain had cleared enough for another short walk, this time along the lane that leads up to the old drovers’ road. The track was empty except for a few hardy cyclists and the occasional sheep that refused to move until I was almost upon it. Halfway up, the wind picked up again and I had to lean into it, hood up, watching the valley below fill with drifting cloud. I turned back before the summit, partly because my legs were protesting and partly because the weather looked ready to change its mind once more. Back at Ty Gwenyn the little wood-burner was already lit, and I spent the evening drying socks on the rack above it while rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm.

On the final morning the hills were hidden behind low cloud again, so I abandoned any grand plans and simply followed the footpath that circles the cottage fields. The air was cool and still, the sort of quiet that makes every footstep sound loud. I walked slowly, listening to the stream at the bottom of the slope and noticing how the grass had turned a deeper green after all the rain. At one point I stopped to watch a kestrel hovering over the hedge, perfectly still against the grey sky, and it struck me how little the weather had actually spoilt. I’d set out each day with a route in mind and ended up somewhere smaller and wetter, yet the days still felt full.

Packing the car later, I found myself smiling at the muddy boots and the half-read map on the passenger seat. The cottage had been exactly as promised—warm, simple, and perfectly placed for walking out the door and straight into whatever the hills decided to offer. I drove away with the windows cracked open, letting the damp Welsh air follow me down the lane, already wondering when I’d next let the weather rearrange my plans.