I had been driving for the better part of three hours from Zagreb when I realised, with that particular sinking feeling familiar to any British holidaymaker, that I had left my walking boots on the kitchen table in Surrey. There they sat, I imagined, next to the kettle and that half-finished packet of digestives, while I was approaching Cakovec Grabrovnik in Continental Croatia with nothing but a pair of canvas plimsolls completely unsuited to the Medimurje countryside I had come to explore.

The property itself, when I finally found it down a lane that my sat-nav seemed to regard more as a suggestion than a fact, immediately lifted my spirits. A traditional Croatian country house with that satisfying red-tiled roof and wooden shutters that looked like they had weathered several decades of proper continental seasons. The owner, a chap called Ivan who spoke excellent English with a faint German accent, took one look at my footwear and laughed in a way that managed to be sympathetic rather than mocking. "British?" he asked, though it was hardly a question.

I had planned, you see, to spend my first afternoon tackling a proper hike through the nearby forest trails. The Medimurje region is criss-crossed with walking routes that meander through vineyards and oak woods, and I had spent the flight poring over maps like a latter-day expedition leader. Instead, I found myself limping back to the house after twenty minutes, having turned my ankle in a muddy rut that my plimsolls had navigated with all the grace of a supermarket trolley. The sky, which had been that particular piercing blue that makes you feel optimistic about everything, was already assembling clouds with theatrical speed.

By morning, the weather had completed its transformation from Mediterranean promise to something distinctly reminiscent of a wet Tuesday in Cumbria. I stood at the kitchen window with my coffee, watching rain come down with the steady determination of precipitation that had no particular place to be. Ivan had lent me a pair of his daughter's walking boots, two sizes too small but better than my sorry plimsolls, and I was determined not to be defeated.

The first proper walk, once the rain had softened to that persistent drizzle we Britons wear like a badge of honour, took me through the vineyards behind the house. The vines were heavy with late-season grapes, and the path was properly muddy now, squelching with that satisfying sound that makes you feel you are accomplishing something simply by moving forward. I walked for perhaps two hours, the too-small boots pinching with every step, until I reached a small chapel on a hill that offered a view across the rolling countryside I had entirely to myself.

The weather continued its performance over the following days. Morning sunshine would tease me into setting out with optimism, only for afternoon thunderstorms to send me scurrying back along trails that had transformed into small streams. I became adept at reading the particular shade of grey that the clouds adopted before releasing their contents, a skill I had not expected to exercise in Continental Croatia.

There was something rather humbling about it, if I am honest. I had arrived with my maps and my plans and my entirely inadequate footwear, expecting to conquer the landscape on my own terms. Instead, I spent a week being gently instructed by the elements, learning to walk when the weather permitted and to sit on the covered terrace with a book and a glass of local Grasevina when it did not. The boots I eventually bought from a shop in Cakovec, after another damp morning's walk had finally defeated Ivan's daughter's pair, now sit in my cupboard as a reminder that the best holidays are often the ones that refuse to follow your script.

On my final morning, the sun rose without apparent irony and I walked for three hours along a ridge that I had been saving, foolishly, for perfect conditions. The view was worth every muddy mile that had preceded it, though I suspect I would not have appreciated it half as much without them.