I have never been so pleased to see a petrol station in my entire life, and that includes the time I ran out of fuel on the M6. The journey to Medulin had been straightforward enough - Pula airport, hire car, quick stop at Lidl for essentials - until I decided I absolutely knew a shortcut. Reader, I did not know a shortcut. What followed was forty-five minutes of increasingly narrow Istrian lanes, one angry-looking goat, and a growing certainty that my phone's GPS had simply given up and was now actively mocking me. By the time I spotted the yellow NOVASOL sign for our holiday home, I was half-ready to kiss the gravel driveway.

The property itself was one of those satisfyingly solid Croatian houses, all whitewashed walls and terracotta roof tiles, with a garden that looked like someone had actually cared about it. I later learned this someone was Marija, the neighbour, who appeared approximately three minutes after I attempted to reverse through the gate and wedged the hire car at what can only be described as a deeply unflattering angle.

"You are English," she announced, which was not a question. "I am Marija. I watch this house for the German lady who owns it. You have damaged nothing yet. This is good."

She was seventy if she was a day, dressed in what I can only describe as agricultural chic, and carrying a bowl of figs that she thrust at me with the urgency of someone disposing of evidence. I accepted them gratefully, mostly because she was still blocking my car door and escape seemed unlikely. The figs, incidentally, were extraordinary - warm from the sun, impossibly sweet, and apparently from a tree she had been "fighting the wasps for" since June.

"Wasps are bastards," she said, with the resigned wisdom of someone who had clearly conducted this war for many summers. "You are here one week? I will bring you more figs. You will eat them or they go to waste and I am angry."

I assured her I would eat them. All of them. Immediately if necessary.

The next character to materialise was Dino, who introduced himself as "the pool man" though this turned out to be only one of his many roles. He arrived on a scooter that sounded like an angry lawnmower, carrying chemicals and what he called "the knowledge." The knowledge, apparently, included extensive opinions on English football, which he had followed obsessively since 1998 when Croatia beat us at something or other.

"Three Lions," he said, shaking his head with genuine sympathy. "Always the hope, never the result. Like my first marriage." He cackled at his own joke and spent twenty minutes explaining the pool filter system in elaborate detail, occasionally breaking off to ask whether I thought Southgate was "a tactical genius or just lucky to have Kane." I admitted I had no strong feelings either way, which seemed to genuinely disappoint him.

By evening I had also met Bruno from the neighbouring property, a retired fisherman who spoke approximately eleven words of English but made them stretch remarkably far. He communicated primarily through gestures, pointing, and what I can only describe as theatrical facial expressions. He was deeply concerned about my plans for dinner, which currently consisted of the figs and some slightly warm Lidl cheese.

"No, no, no," he said, physically blocking my attempt to retreat indoors. He produced a plastic bag containing fish, which he pressed upon me with the same urgency Marija had deployed with her figs. "From this morning. You cook. Simple. Olive oil. Lemon. Not difficult, you are English but still you can manage."

I chose to take this as encouragement rather than insult.

That first evening, sitting on the terrace with Bruno's fish and Marija's figs, watching the sun drop behind the Medulin peninsula, I found myself reflecting on something I had not expected. There is a particular kind of holiday where you arrive somewhere and simply exist in parallel to the place - seeing sights, eating meals, taking photographs of things you will later struggle to identify. And then there is the other kind, the one I had apparently stumbled into, where strangers decide you belong to them now and proceed to feed you, advise you, and mildly insult your national sporting achievements.

I had come to Istria for the beaches and the Roman ruins and the promise of decent wine. I had not come expecting to be adopted by a small committee of locals who would monitor my comings and goings with the efficiency of a neighbourhood watch scheme. Yet here I was, already scheduled for tomorrow's fig delivery, promised a lesson in proper fish grilling from Bruno, and informed by Dino that he would return Thursday to "discuss the Champions League and also your pH levels."

The hire car remained at its embarrassing angle until Marija fetched her nephew to reposition it, which he did while she supervised and I attempted to look appropriately grateful and slightly incompetent. It seemed to be the expected role for an Englishman abroad, and I was discovering I did not mind playing it one bit.