I have never been more grateful for a sat nav's patience than during our approach to Zadar. Three hours after collecting the hire car at Split Airport, we found ourselves in what I can only describe as a Croatian farmer's front garden, surrounded by goats who seemed deeply unimpressed by our presence. My partner, ever the optimist, suggested we ask for directions. I pointed out that our Croatian extended to "hvala" and "pivo," neither of which seemed immediately useful for explaining we'd confused a field track with the D8 coastal road.

The farmer, a chap called Branko with eyebrows you could lose a pencil in, emerged from his shed wiping motor oil on his trousers. Through a magnificent combination of pointing, eyebrow movements, and what I later learned was him teaching us the local word for "idiot," he set us right. We gave him a packet of Werther's Originals we'd bought at Bristol Airport. He looked at them like I'd handed him a live frog, then pocketed them with a nod that suggested we were now bonded for life.

Properly back on the road, the sat nav finally guided us to the stone villa in Zadar's quieter outskirts. The key holder, a woman called Mira who introduced herself as "the neighbour who watches everything," met us on the doorstep with a glass of rakija each. "You look like you need it," she said, which I chose to take as kindness rather than commentary on our frazzled state. The rakija hit like a friendly slap. Mira explained she'd already checked we'd closed the car doors properly, that the goats we'd encountered were Branko's "idiot test," and that she'd left us tomatoes because the shop-bought ones were "an insult to the soil."

The villa itself was one of those solid stone affairs that look like they've weathered several centuries and a few minor wars. Mira showed us round with the efficiency of someone who'd done this hundreds of times, pausing only to point out that the previous guests had broken the washing machine by attempting to wash "too many small trousers." I didn't ask for clarification. Some holiday mysteries deserve respect.

That evening, having established ourselves on the terrace with Mira's tomatoes and some local cheese, another neighbour appeared. Ante, seventy-ish, permanently tanned to the colour of a well-worn handbag, wanted to know if we understood football. I admitted to a passing knowledge. This was apparently sufficient. He spent forty minutes explaining why Zadar's team deserved more respect, using a salt pot and two olive oils to demonstrate tactical formations. My partner made the error of asking about his family. Ante produced a wallet containing photographs of approximately forty-seven grandchildren, each with a story that required its own rakija toast.

By the third toast, I was reflecting on something I'd forgotten during months of office life. There's a particular rhythm to conversations here, unhurried, slightly theatrical, generous with time in a way that makes you aware of how stingily you usually spend your own. I found myself telling Ante about my mother's gardening failures, a subject I'd never discussed with colleagues. He nodded with genuine sympathy and advised rakija for the plants.

Mira reappeared to check we hadn't set fire to anything. She and Ante fell into immediate bickering about whether the fig tree overhanging our terrace was "hers" or "nobody's" or "Ante's responsibility that he always ignores." The tree, they eventually agreed, was "stupid anyway." They invited us to coffee the next morning. It wasn't really a question.

I went to bed slightly rakija-hazy, listening to goats in the middle distance and wondering if Branko was telling his wife about the English fools in the garden. The sat nav sat silent on the kitchen counter, probably judging us. Somewhere between the tomatoes and the tactical salt pot, Zadar had already stopped feeling like a destination and started feeling like a conversation I was only just learning to join.