I'd driven us halfway across Croatia before realising the sat nav had been set to "avoid motorways" since a trip to the Lakes last spring. What should have been a straightforward run from Zagreb turned into a scenic tour of every minor road in Continental Croatia, punctuated by my partner's helpful observations about my navigational skills and the children asking if we were nearly there every four minutes. By the time we spotted the sign for Pozega Velika, I was ready to abandon the car and live in a hedge.

The property sits in the countryside near Pozega, surrounded by the gentle hills and vineyards that characterise this part of Slavonia. I'd booked it partly for the outdoor pool, partly for the promise of proper peace and quiet, and largely because the photos showed a barbecue area that made me briefly consider becoming a full-time grill master. The reality, as we crunched up the gravel drive with our overpacked estate car, was even better and slightly more chaotic than anticipated.

My first mishap came within thirty seconds of arrival. Eager to stretch my legs and assert myself as the competent family navigator I'd failed to be, I strode towards what I confidently identified as the front door. It was, in fact, a very handsome storage shed. The actual entrance was around the corner, where my eldest was already letting herself in with the key code, offering me that particular look teenagers reserve for parents who have publicly embarrassed themselves. I laughed, mostly because the alternative was crying into my travel pillow.

Stepping inside, the house had that immediate sense of rightness you sometimes get with holiday rentals. High ceilings, wooden beams, and a kitchen that looked like it had actually been used by humans rather than styled for a magazine shoot. The previous guests had left a small bottle of local plum rakija on the counter with a handwritten note. I decided this was a sign of civilisation and possibly my new favourite tradition.

The children vanished upstairs to argue over bedroom allocations, leaving my partner and me to explore the ground floor with the quiet reverence of people who had been in a car for far too long. The living area opened onto a covered terrace where a substantial wooden table sat waiting for long lunches. Beyond that, the pool glinted in the afternoon sun, looking considerably more inviting than the services we'd last stopped at somewhere near Kutina.

I must confess to a moment of gentle self-reflection as I stood there, still clutching the car keys and a half-eaten packet of motorway crisps. We'd spent months planning this break, debating destinations, comparing flight prices, and ultimately choosing a simple cottage in rural Croatia over somewhere more obviously glamorous. Standing in that quiet house, hearing my children already bickering good-naturedly upstairs while cicadas started their evening chorus outside, I knew we'd made exactly the right choice. The journey had been ridiculous, my sense of direction remained questionable, and I was almost certainly going to fall into that pool fully clothed at some point during the week. But for now, with a cold drink in hand and nowhere particular to be, Continental Croatia felt like the only place I wanted to be.

I found the proper front door eventually, and that's what matters.