We set off despite the relentless rain and the promise of gales and drove to a quiet campsite, hidden amongst the feet of the the mountains.
We pitched our tent beneath grey skies, on the shores of a silent grey lake, and when we ducked inside, the sound of the raindrops pattering on the tent-top made us cuddle our knees and cradle our hot chocolate and snuggle up in our sleeping bags with gladness.
I've always said that I hate camping in the rain, but this week there was a magic in the wetness.
The mists clung around the tips of the mountaintops and drifted slowly through the valleys, and the skies hung moodily above us as we dodged showers and splashed through puddles and rejoiced in sudden flashes of sunshine.
By day we lit fires, cooked sausages, explored castles and travelled winding mountain roads.
And by night James and I sat outside our tent overlooking the quiet grey of the lake and listening to the crackle and pop of the fire whilst our boy in his new sleeping bag chattered quietly to himself and cheerfully resisted sleep.
With our chairs pulled up close to the flames, the fire burning our cheeks and baking our knees, the cold creeping up our backs and the damp clinging miserably to our socks, we watched the night close in over the campsite as we toasted marshmallow after marshmallow and filled our mouths with their crispy, molten goodness.
And despite the rain, or perhaps because of it, this little camping made me feel wild and fully alive and free.
Perhaps I don't hate camping in the rain quite as much as I thought.