We set off from Swansea in the sort of drizzle that makes you question why you didn’t just stay home with a book, but the promise of three cosy days at the 1 Bed Lodge in Caswell kept us cheerful. Halfway along the lane a sudden gust whipped a stray carrier bag straight across the windscreen, and for one silly moment I thought we’d picked up a hitch-hiking seagull. The lodge itself appeared through the mist like a wooden lifeboat beached on the hillside, its little deck already dotted with raindrops.

Inside, the kettle was still warm from the owners’ last check, and the view from the sofa framed nothing but dripping gorse and the grey line of the Bristol Channel. We’d planned to head straight out along the coastal path to Brandy Cove, but the forecast had other ideas; by the time we’d unpacked the walking boots the rain had thickened into proper West Wales stair-rods. We swapped boots for slippers, made tea, and watched the drops race down the window while the gulls wheeled about like grumpy commuters.

Next morning the clouds lifted just enough to tempt us out. We followed the narrow track behind the lodge that climbs towards the old quarry workings, boots squelching through last night’s puddles. Every few minutes the wind would shove a fresh shower our way, then whip it off again, so our waterproofs spent more time being zipped and unzipped than actually protecting us. At the top we paused, breathing in the salt air and the faint scent of wet bracken, and I found myself wondering why I always expect the weather to behave like it does on telly forecasts.

By afternoon the sky had cleared into that luminous blue you only seem to get after a downpour. We set off again, this time aiming for the beach at Caswell Bay itself, only a short stroll down the lane. The tide was out, leaving wide stretches of damp sand perfect for skimming stones, and we spent a happy hour watching a border collie chase every wave as though it were a personal insult. A sudden bank of cloud rolled in from the west, however, and we barely made it back to the lodge before another soaking arrived.

That evening the rain hammered on the wooden roof like impatient fingers, yet the little wood-burner soon had the place toasty. We sat with mugs of soup, listening to the weather’s soundtrack and laughing about how our “hiking holiday” had become a masterclass in timing dashes between showers. I caught myself reflecting that perhaps the real charm of a place like this isn’t conquering long trails, but learning to read the sky and letting it steer the day.

The final morning dawned soft and still, the sort of calm that feels like an apology. We took the short path that hugs the cliff edge towards the old lookout point, the sea now a gentle silver sheet. Every so often a gust would send a fine spray of droplets across our faces, just enough to remind us who was really in charge. By the time we returned, boots caked in red mud, the sun had broken through again, turning the whole valley into a patchwork of gold and green.

Packing the car later felt oddly reluctant. The lodge had given us no dramatic summits or Instagram-worthy miles, yet the shifting weather and short, changeable walks had somehow made the three days feel richer than any rigid itinerary could have managed.