The journey down from Cardiff was going rather nicely until I took a wrong turning just past Port Talbot and ended up on a single-track lane that seemed determined to swallow the car whole. By the time I’d reversed into somebody’s driveway and muttered an apology to a surprised sheep, I was running late and slightly frazzled. Still, when I finally pulled up outside Cabin No. 9, the sight of its neat timber porch and the little fern-fringed garden immediately made the detour feel worth it.

The sky was a moody Welsh grey when I arrived, the sort that promises either a soft drizzle or a proper downpour. I’d barely unpacked the kettle before the first fat drops began to tap on the roof. Rather than fight it, I decided the weather could have the first round. I pulled on my waterproofs, grabbed the OS map that lived in the bedside drawer, and set off on the short loop behind the cabins that leads up to the ridge. Within minutes the path turned to slick mud, and every step sounded like someone stirring porridge. I slipped once, caught myself on a handy gorse bush, and laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it all. Ten minutes later the rain eased, the clouds lifted just enough to show a sliver of sea, and I stood there catching my breath, feeling oddly triumphant for having braved the weather on my first afternoon.

The next morning dawned brighter, so I headed out again, this time aiming for the coastal path that hugs the cliffs a couple of miles away. The breeze was brisk but not unkind, and the gulls wheeled overhead as if they were enjoying the show. Halfway along the route the wind picked up, whipping spray into my face and turning the path into a series of puddles that demanded careful footwork. I stopped on a rocky outcrop, ate a slightly squashed banana, and watched a pair of walkers turn back because their dog refused to carry on. I almost joined them, but the thought of retreating felt like letting the weather win twice in one weekend, so I pressed on, trousers flapping like flags.

By the time I reached the little cove at the end of the trail, the clouds had regrouped and the first spits of rain returned. I huddled under an overhanging rock, listening to the sea hiss against the shingle, and realised how quickly plans can dissolve out here. Back at the cabin I dried off beside the wood-burner, boots steaming on the hearth, and felt a quiet contentment settle over me. There’s something oddly freeing about letting the weather dictate the day; it strips away the usual pressure to tick off sights and leaves you with whatever the landscape decides to offer.

On the final morning I woke to a steady drizzle that looked set to linger, so I opted for the sheltered woodland trail that winds between the cabins and the nearby stream. The path was carpeted with last autumn’s leaves, now slick and fragrant, and every few metres a robin hopped ahead of me as though leading the way. The rain never quite stopped, but it never quite mattered either; the sound of water on leaves and the occasional drip down my collar became part of the rhythm of the walk. I found myself thinking about how rarely I let a weekend unfold without a rigid itinerary, and how much more present I felt when I simply followed the weather’s lead.

By the time I packed the car again, the mishap on the lane felt like a distant memory. The real story of the three days had been written by wind, rain, and the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. I left Cabin No. 9 with muddy boots, a slightly damp map, and the sense that West Wales had quietly reminded me to slow down and let the elements steer the adventure.