The drive down from Swansea felt promising until I took a wrong turn at the roundabout and ended up behind a tractor that moved at roughly the pace of drying paint. By the time I reached the lane to Glamping Pod 10, the sky had already decided to test me. A fine, sideways drizzle started the moment I parked, and I spent the first five minutes wrestling with the pod’s latch while trying not to drop my overnight bag in the mud.

Inside it was warm and dry, which was all that mattered. The pod sat at the edge of a small field with a view that stretched across the Gower peninsula, the sea a pale grey line in the distance. I dumped my rucksack, pulled on waterproof trousers, and stepped straight back out again; there was no point waiting for the weather to improve when you’re only here for three days.

The first afternoon was meant to be a gentle coastal stroll to Oxwich Bay. Within ten minutes the drizzle had become proper rain, the sort that finds every gap in your jacket. I turned back after half an hour, boots squelching, and spent the rest of the light reading on the pod’s little veranda while the sheep in the next field gave me the side-eye.

The next morning brought a brief window of brightness, so I set off for the cliffs at Mewslade. The path climbed quickly and the wind picked up, pushing me sideways every few steps. I kept my hood up and my head down, watching the waves crash against the rocks below. Halfway along the ridge the clouds closed in again, and I had to crouch behind a gorse bush to wrestle my map back into its plastic sleeve. By the time I reached the car park the rain was horizontal. I drove the short distance back to the pod, changed into dry socks, and accepted that the weather had won that round.

On the final day I tried again, this time aiming for the woodland trails behind the pod itself. The forecast had promised showers, but the showers arrived before I’d even laced my boots. I walked anyway, following the muddy track through the trees, listening to water dripping from every leaf. Every so often the canopy thinned and I caught a glimpse of the sea, silver under the clouds. I stopped on a stile to eat a slightly crushed pasty and realised I hadn’t checked my phone in over an hour; the rain had done what no amount of good intentions ever could.

Back at the pod I peeled off the wet layers and hung them over the little heater. The place felt smaller once everything was steaming gently, but it was oddly comforting. I made tea and watched the last of the light fade across the field, the sheep now just dark shapes moving through the mist. Three days had passed and I hadn’t managed the long coastal walk I’d planned, yet the pod still felt like the right place to be. The weather had kept me moving, kept me humble, and kept me close to the small patch of West Wales I’d come to see.