Okay, look. I need to talk about this JProof thing. It’s been stuffed in the bottom of my hiking pack for, what, three years? Maybe more. Forgotten, honestly. Like that slightly dubious energy bar that crumbles to dust when you finally rediscover it. I only remembered it existed because last Tuesday, staring out the window at the kind of relentless, sideways rain that makes you question all your life choices leading up to that moment, I realised my \’good\’ raincoat was… elsewhere. Probably mouldering in the trunk of the car I sold last year. Desperation is a powerful motivator. I dug. Past the tangled mess of paracord, the leaky travel mug, the fossilised trail mix. And there it was. Crumpled into its own pocket like a hibernating technicolor bat. The JProof \’Adventure\’ jacket. Huh. Adventure, right.

Thing is, I bought this on a whim. Late-night online scroll, fueled by cheap instant coffee and the faint, lingering panic of an upcoming weekend trip to Snowdonia. The forecast looked… Welsh. Promised \’lightweight\’, \’packable\’, \’waterproof\’. Buzzwords that usually translate to \’flimsy plastic bag that tears on the first bramble\’ or \’sauna suit that traps more sweat than it repels rain\’. But the price wasn’t completely insane, and desperation (again) won. It arrived. I unfolded it. Held it up. My first thought? \”Hmm. Feels… thin. Like, really thin. Did I accidentally order the sample size for ants?\” And the colour. Electric blue. Not my usual vibe. More \’80s ski instructor\’ than \’stealthy mountain ninja\’. I remember sighing. \”Well, it packs small.\” And shoved it deep into the pack, where it promptly vanished from consciousness.

Fast forward to last Tuesday. That biblical rain. I had to walk the dog. No choice. The mutt was giving me The Look. The one that says, \”My bladder transcends your pathetic human aversion to precipitation.\” So, I wrestled the JProof out of its little pouch. It sprang back into shape surprisingly well, honestly. Better than I do on a Monday morning. Pulled it on over a thick hoodie. Zipped up. It felt… fine? Not restrictive. No weird crinkly noises, which was a bonus. Stepped outside.

Instant deluge. The kind where rain doesn’t fall, it attacks. Horizontal, vindictive. My face got lashed. My jeans were soaked to the knee in seconds. But my torso? My arms? Bone bloody dry. It was… weirdly effective. Like standing behind an invisible force field while chaos reigns inches away. I kept poking my own arm, half-expecting dampness. Nothing. Just the slick feel of the fabric. The hood stayed put too, mostly. Didn’t get ripped off by the wind, which is my usual hood experience. The dog, trotting ahead like a furry, oblivious lunatic, seemed thoroughly unimpressed by my minor technological marvel. But I noticed. We walked for forty minutes. Came back in. Peeled the jacket off. The hoodie underneath? Perfectly dry. Not a hint of damp. Huh. Okay. Points.

But the real test? Last weekend. Planned a quick hike up a local tor. Forecast said \’light showers\’. Mountain forecasts, I swear, are written by optimistic gamblers. \’Light showers\’ translated to \’sudden, intense hailstorm halfway up a wind-scoured slope with zero cover\’. One minute, admiring the view. Next minute, being pelted by frozen peas hurled by an angry sky god. Wind howling like a banshee with indigestion. Temperature dropped like a stone. Panic mode. Fumbled for the JProof, jammed it on over my fleece. Zipped it right up to my chin. Pulled the hood tight. The hail? It bounced. Literally bounced off the fabric. That \’20k waterproof\’ rating they brag about? Felt real in that moment. Not just dry, but weirdly… sheltered? The wind howled around me, but the jacket held its shape, didn’t flap like a sail trying to escape. The crucial bit? Those pit zips. Genius. Simple, mesh-lined vents under the arms. Unzipped them a couple of inches. Instant relief. Let the steam from my exertions out, but the rain and hail stayed firmly out. That’s the difference, right? Between just being waterproof and actually being usable while you’re working hard. Stopped me from boiling alive inside my own personal nylon sauna. Finished the hike damp (legs, face, the usual casualties), but my core? Toastie and dry. Genuinely surprised me. It felt… robust. Despite its flimsy feel in my hands.

Now, daily life. It lives on my bike now. Folds back into its pocket ridiculously small. Fits in the tiny saddlebag alongside a puncture kit and some despair. Commuting in spring showers? Perfect. Blocks the wind chill beautifully on descents. Got caught in a proper downpour last week cycling home. Arrived looking like a drowned rat… from the waist down. Top half? Dry as a bone. Even the zip. No weird seepage down the front. The little storm flap behind it actually seems to do its job. Who knew?

Is it perfect? Hell no. The fit is… boxy. Straight up and down. I look less like a sleek adventurer, more like a slightly confused blue mailbox. Wish it had a slightly tailored waist or something. The pockets are… adequate. Handwarmer style, decent size, but they sit kinda high when you’ve got a backpack waist strap on. Minor annoyance. And the fabric? While impressively waterproof and surprisingly tough against snags (brambles barely registered), it feels like it could tear if you really snagged it hard on something sharp. You don’t forget it’s a lightweight layer. You wouldn’t bushwhack through thorny hell wearing it expecting zero marks. It’s not armour. It’s a shield against the wet and wind.

The biggest thing? It just… works. Consistently. It’s become my default grab-and-go layer for anything vaguely damp or breezy. Throws it on over a t-shirt for dog walks, over a fleece for hikes, under a heavier insulated jacket as a shell when it’s really grim. It doesn’t feel precious. It feels… useful. Like a reliable, slightly uncool tool. The electric blue has grown on me, weirdly. Makes me visible in murky weather, which is probably a good thing, even if it clashes horribly with my usual muddy boots.

Would I pay full price for it now, knowing what I know? Sighs, rubs temples. Yeah. Probably. Reluctantly. Because finding something this genuinely packable, this reliably waterproof, and this breathable (thanks pit zips!) without spending way more… it’s rare. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t make me feel like an Instagram outdoors guru. It just quietly, efficiently, keeps the rain out. And sometimes, that’s exactly the kind of boring, dependable hero you need. Even if it looks like it escaped from a retro ski catalog.

Q: Seriously, how small does this thing pack down?
A> Stupidly small. Like, slightly-larger-than-a-coke-can small. Into its own chest pocket. You stuff it in, zip it up, and it becomes this dense little brick. Fits in glove compartments, tiny bike bags, even a large coat pocket without a bulge. It’s its party trick.

Q: Pit zips? Are they actually useful or just a gimmick?
A> Not a gimmick. Lifesaver. When you\’re hiking uphill or biking hard, you will sweat. Unzip those vents maybe an inch or two under each arm. Massive difference. Lets the hot, humid air out instantly, but because they\’re high up and under the arm, angled down, rain doesn\’t get in. Stops that awful clammy boil-in-the-bag feeling. Essential for anything active.

Q: Is it actually warm?
A> Nope. Zero insulation. It\’s a shell. Pure and simple. It blocks wind and water. That\’s it. Your warmth comes from what you wear under it – a t-shirt on a mild damp day, a fleece or insulated layer when it\’s cold and wet. That’s why the breathability matters – stops you getting sweaty and chilled underneath your own layers.

Q: The fit looks kinda boxy/unflattering in pictures. Is it really like that?
A> Yep. It’s pretty much a straight cut. No fancy tailoring around the waist. If you’re used to fitted outdoor gear, it’ll feel… utilitarian. Like wearing a slightly more flexible plastic bag (a dry plastic bag!). Sizing seems pretty true, maybe a touch generous to allow for layers underneath. But don’t expect a flattering silhouette. It prioritises function and ease of movement over looking sleek.