I had promised myself I would not rely on Google Maps quite so heavily this holiday, and yet there I was, crawling along a gravel track in our hire car, convinced the sat nav had finally lost the plot entirely. My partner sat beside me, clutching the door handle with that particular white-knuckled optimism that says "I trust you" while simultaneously preparing for death. The track grew narrower, the potholes grew deeper, and I may have uttered a word that shall not be repeated in polite company. Then, quite suddenly, the trees parted and there it was: our holiday home near Pozega Brestovac, looking rather more civilised than the journey deserved.

We had arrived in Continental Croatia with grand walking ambitions and a weather app that had promised nothing but sunshine. The British in me should have known better. The British in me did know better. The British in me had packed waterproofs anyway, thank goodness, because within forty minutes of unloading the car, the sky turned the colour of a bruised plum and proceeded to empty itself with theatrical enthusiasm.

Our first afternoon was meant to be a gentle stroll through the surrounding Slavonian countryside, perhaps a bit of birdwatching, definitely a picnic. Instead we found ourselves huddled on the covered terrace of the property, watching rain bounce six inches off the ground while our cheese and ham sat in the fridge, mournfully uneaten. The house itself, though, proved excellent company during this meteorological betrayal. Spacious enough that we were not tripping over each other, warm enough that the downpour outside felt almost cosy by contrast, and equipped with a kitchen that made excellent coffee. I drank three cups and pretended this had been my plan all along.

The following morning brought that particular brightness after rain that makes everything look freshly painted. We set off with proper determination, boots laced, maps consulted, the whole serious walker performance. The paths around Pozega Brestovac wind through gentle hills and mixed woodland, nothing too demanding for the average enthusiast but rewarding enough to feel virtuous afterwards. We spotted deer tracks, heard woodpeckers doing their carpentry, and I managed to walk into a low branch while admiring a view. My dignity remains somewhere in that forest to this day.

By afternoon the clouds had regrouped with what I can only describe as malice. The drizzle started somewhere between "refreshing" and "why are we doing this," and by the time we reached a small clearing with a bench, it had upgraded itself to proper rain. We squelched back to the house looking like something the cat had drowned and subsequently dragged in. The washing machine, I noted with gratitude, was of industrial efficiency.

Day three brought what I now recognise as the Continental Croatia special: four seasons before lunch. We set out in sunshine, added layers in a sudden chill, removed them in humidity, then deployed umbrellas with the resigned expertise of people who have done this before. The landscape here rewards persistence. Rolling farmland gives way to oak woods, the occasional vineyard clings to south-facing slopes, and every now and then a viewpoint opens up across the Pozega valley that makes the meteorological suffering worthwhile. We walked perhaps eight miles that day, though it felt like twenty given the wardrobe changes required.

What I came to appreciate, perhaps more than the walking itself, was the rhythm of adjusting. The British approach to weather is essentially stoic grumbling, and I deployed this with native skill. But there was something else too, something I noticed on our fourth day when we simply abandoned a planned long hike and instead did a short loop from the house twice, retreating between showers for soup and bread. The flexibility of it. The lack of pressure to achieve. I am not naturally good at this, I must confess. I like a plan, a target, a summit to bag. Yet here, with the weather making mockery of my ambitions, I found a different sort of satisfaction in the small victories: a dry hour seized, a viewpoint reached in fleeting sunlight, the particular pleasure of returning to a warm house with muddy boots and a sense of having done enough.

The property itself sits well for this approach. Not isolated enough to feel precarious, not developed enough to lose that sense of being properly in the countryside. We walked to a nearby village one morning, perhaps twenty minutes on lanes, and bought bread from a shop where the proprietor seemed genuinely surprised to see tourists. Another afternoon we simply wandered the tracks directly from the back of the house, following our noses and occasionally a marked trail, getting slightly lost in the most pleasant fashion.

On our final full day, the weather finally relented. Blue skies, warm sun, that particular clarity of light that comes after prolonged rain. We walked further than planned, drunk on the novelty of dryness, and I got sunburned in that classic British holiday tradition. My partner found this hilarious. I found it less so, but accepted it as fitting punishment for my earlier meteorological complaints.

We left the next morning with boots still damp, maps slightly crumpled, and a collection of photographs featuring mostly grey skies but occasionally glorious ones. I had not walked all the routes I had researched. I had not conquered any peaks or set any personal bests. What I had done, rather unexpectedly, was learn to be a bit more comfortable with not quite managing, with the weather having its say, with the holiday being what it was rather than what I had scripted. This is not a transformation, mind you. I will still pack fourteen maps and check forecasts obsessively. But I might, just might, pack a better sense of humour about the whole business. And definitely more suncream.