The experience wasn't so much one of those blinding-flash Road to Damascus enlightenments, more like a cold, seeping sensation in my boots. It would become my epiphany on the Path to Norwood Bottom...

I should be wearing wellingtons.

The day had started brightly enough, but then, last summer, so many days looked promising at first, only for the heavens to open later on. To no-one's great surprise, the Met Office eventually declared it England's wettest summer for 350 years, and in Yorkshire, June saw three times more rainfall than normal with thousands flooded out of their homes and some people swept to their deaths.

Away from the flood plains of East and South Yorkshire, very fortunate ones like me were still doggedly trying to wring some enjoyment out of the summer. But on this particular walk through Norwood Bottom, in the aptly-named Washburn Valley, to the west of Harrogate, the fields were
so heavily waterlogged that it seemed as though nature
was in the process of restoring them to their former state of primeval swamp.

Where the paths weren't completely flooded, they oozed with several inches of adhesive brown mud, and it was on my sodden trudge back to the car that it dawned on me. My walking boots, with their Vibram soles and allegedly waterproof membranes, simply weren't up to the job. They might cling almost limpet-like to hard rock in the Lakes or Scotland, but they were never designed for the vast unsqueezed sponge into which England is turning.

Something radical was required. So when I got home I dug out an old pair of wellingtons. Wellies were what I wore as a child growing up in the country. Purchasing walking boots, and the ritual of larding them with dubbin to provide a fighting chance against water, came with adolescence.

For years, there were two main kinds of boots, and they were both made of leather. One was a heavyweight design manufactured by Alpine-sounding companies and intended for serious climbing on the Eiger or Mount Everest. But so successfully were they marketed in the UK that some people bought them to walk their dogs. Well, I suppose one day you might have to negotiate a crevasse in Roundhay Park.

The other boots were made for outdoor work, usually picked up for bargain prices at Army & Navy Stores, and they often had soles with short nails to make them hard-wearing and give better traction on rock. But after a time, the nails would work through to your foot and provide a masochistic hobble home.

Soles of moulded plastic were introduced later. And when country walking got really popular in the 1970s – it's now the nation's second-favourite leisure activity after shopping – a whole new industry was born.

If the heart of this boom was the lace-up – based on the design of those old army and work boots – the sole was called the Vibram and had amazing grip. With these on your feet, you felt you could conquer anything.

New brands with technical-sounding names quickly appeared, many of them claiming to be waterproof, which in my experience was true for the first few hundred miles of use, but only in damp grass.

But waterproof through the English summer of 2007? Come on, guys. So, back to my wellies.

The pair I owned were called Nokian Trimmi and were made in Finland. Once sold under the dynamic-sounding name of Bogtrotters, they were short and lightweight, and even described as "hill wellies" by the veteran Scottish Munro-bagger, Hamish Brown, but I had only ever used them for walks of not more than an hour or so near my home.

Now they were put to a real test. With cushioned socks making them a snug fit, they felt pleasant enough for five or six miles on a walk along the river Wharfe, but when I struck out over rough ground, the limitations imposed by the thin rubber were obvious. Hamish Brown must have ankles made of steel.

I found it was easy to stumble awkwardly, because of their lack of ankle support, and I avoided accidents by giving more thought to where I placed every step.

But the main problem was their short length. Even wearing wellies, I went home with wet feet after walks across Rombalds Moor, between Airedale and Wharfedale. It says a lot about the winter we've just had that it was easy to submerge the best part of a shin into the quagmire than some footpaths and bridleways had become.

And as winter turned into spring, the rain continued to pour and a new pair of wellies was called for, a pair which came almost up to the knee and which were made of stronger rubber. I surveyed the market and discovered there must be a couple of dozen brands out there, most I'd never heard of.

In the end, I narrowed it down to Aigles, endorsed by wildlife photographer and TV presenter Simon King, and Hunters, endorsed by half the horse-riders and 4x4 drivers of England.

Not wishing to be a style cliché, I avoided green Hunters and bought a black pair, added some high Bridgedale socks and strode out across the morass that is now large parts of Ilkley Moor.

The first thing I noticed was how absurdly comfortable I felt, and how liberated I was from the usual care of avoiding water and thick mud. I just waded through every piece of treacle-like bog in my way. Also, my socks seemed to fill out the wellies and give me more ankle support.

The second thing I noticed was the feet of other people I encountered. They all wore the usual walking boots, and they were in the process of taking home a fair bit of the moor's mud and water.

I tried not to smirk.

The third thing I was aware of was the surprised glances at my feet. I was clearly an odd sight, carrying a rucksack and wearing wellingtons. This was a combination that clearly jarred in the eyes of walkers. I must have seemed a right Ilkley Moor baht 'at.

Who cares? After another week of wet spring weather, I'm still out there in wellies, and I have never felt drier or more cosseted. The feet fashionistas of the our footpaths can look at me with pity all they like.

And who knows? I might even wear wellingtons with shorts, if and when the rain stops falling.