I have never been so grateful to see a cow as I was when I finally spotted one just outside Bjelovar. It meant I was still in Continental Croatia and not, as my satnav had briefly suggested, somewhere in the Hungarian plains. The journey from Zagreb had been straightforward enough until I decided to take what I optimistically called "a scenic shortcut," which turned into forty minutes of increasingly narrow farm tracks, one deeply suspicious goose, and a growing certainty that I would be featured on a missing persons documentary. My phone had given up on signal entirely. The only soundtrack was my own muttering and the occasional thud of my suitcase sliding across the back seat every time I hit a pothole.

I arrived at the Bjelovar Maglenca in late October, when Continental Croatia has that particular quality of being technically autumn but already flirting with winter. The trees were doing their best impression of a firework display, all copper and burnt orange against a sky that could not make up its mind whether to rain or simply sulk. I pulled up to the property with leaves stuck to my windscreen and what I can only describe as agricultural mud on my shoes. The sort of mud that has ambitions. I had packed for "mild autumn weather," which in my London brain meant a light jacket and perhaps a cheerful scarf. The wind that greeted me suggested I had fundamentally misunderstood the assignment.

The house itself sat among fields that rolled away in every direction, the kind of landscape that makes you feel both wonderfully free and slightly exposed. It was bigger than I expected, solid and unpretentious, with a covered terrace that immediately made me think of morning coffee and the distinct possibility of needing a blanket. The garden had that end-of-season look, a bit tired but still proud, with late roses clinging on and the vegetable patch showing the remains of someone's serious summer efforts. I later learned the neighbours had been growing pumpkins the size of small children, which explained the slightly competitive atmosphere I detected at the local market.

My first job was getting the heating sorted, because the interior had that particular stillness that comes from being empty for a stretch. I am not someone who reads instructions willingly, a character flaw that has followed me through life like the goose followed my car. I spent a good twenty minutes prodding at what I thought was the thermostat before realising I had been adjusting the timer for the outdoor lights. The actual heating controls were in a cupboard I had mistaken for a broom closet. By the time I had warmth and the beginnings of self-respect, dusk had arrived properly, that heavy early darkness that autumn brings to this part of the world.

I made tea with the sort of concentration usually reserved for defusing explosives, standing in the kitchen and watching the last light leak out of the sky. The fields had gone from gold to grey to something approaching black, and I could see lights from distant farmhouses starting to appear. There was a particular smell, something I could not identify then and still struggle with now, a mix of woodsmoke from somewhere, damp earth, and the particular cold freshness that comes before the real winter sets in. It smelled like change, like the year winding down and getting honest about things.

I had planned to go out for dinner, to find some local restaurant and begin my holiday properly. Instead I found bread and cheese in my supplies, opened a bottle of wine, and sat on that covered terrace wrapped in every blanket I could locate. The temperature was dropping fast, proper Continental Croatian autumn doing what it does best, and I could see my breath mingling with the steam from my mug. Somewhere an owl started up, and I felt that particular combination of peacefulness and slight melancholy that October seems to specialise in. I thought about the goose, and the mud, and my complete failure to pack appropriately, and I laughed at myself in the darkness. The seasonal shift had caught me out in every possible way, stripping away my London assumptions about weather and comfort and what a holiday should look like. I was cold, slightly ridiculous, and entirely content. The year was ending here in a way it never did at home, visibly and honestly, and I had accidentally arrived at exactly the right moment to witness it.