We had been on the road for what felt like fourteen hours, though the satnav swore it was only four, when I made the executive decision to navigate the final stretch myself. My partner, ever the trusting soul, handed me the phone and I promptly directed us down a track that grew narrower with every metre, until we were essentially driving through someone's olive grove. A very angry man in a vest waved at us with what I choose to believe was friendly enthusiasm, and we reversed for nearly a kilometre before finding the actual turning to our Vabriga villa.

The villa itself, when we finally arrived, was almost embarrassingly lovely. Stone walls, terracotta roof, a pool that caught the late afternoon light like something from a brochure I would normally dismiss as unrealistic. I stood there with my suitcase still in hand, smelling of motorway stress and a petrol station sandwich, and felt that particular British emotion of being slightly annoyed that something was actually nice.

The next morning I woke with ambitious plans. I had packed, with typical British optimism, three pairs of walking boots, a waterproof jacket, and a sun hat. This would prove to be almost prophetically excessive. We set off for the Parenzana trail, the old railway route that winds through the Istrian countryside, with a packed lunch and my insistence that we would walk at least fifteen kilometres before dinner.

The weather, which had been glorious at eight in the morning, turned by ten. Not dramatically, not with the theatrical thunderstorms I secretly enjoy, but with a sort of grey, persistent drizzle that felt almost personal. We sheltered under a stone bridge near the village of Tar, eating our sandwiches while I delivered a monologue about how this was precisely why I had brought the waterproof jacket. My partner pointed out, not unreasonably, that I had also brought the sun hat, and that perhaps my weather preparation was less strategic planning and more anxious overcompensation.

By midday the rain had stopped, and we walked on through vineyards and woodland, the path soft underfoot in that particular way that threatens to ruin decent footwear. The Parenzana is genuinely beautiful in a quiet, unshowy manner. Old tunnels, crumbling stations, views down to the coast that make you stop and pretend you are not out of breath. We reached a viewpoint above the Mirna valley and I felt, with the smugness of someone who has slightly earned it, that this was exactly the sort of holiday walking I had imagined.

The following day I proposed a coastal walk, a route I had found described in vague terms online. The weather, I announced, looking at a sky of complicated cloud formations, looked promising. This was, in retrospect, a foolish thing to say aloud. We had walked perhaps two kilometres from Vabriga toward the Lanterna peninsula when the wind arrived, apparently from nowhere, carrying horizontal rain that stung slightly and made any attempt at conversation ridiculous. We turned back, heads down, my sun hat somehow finding its way out of my bag despite my protests that I had not packed it that morning.

Drenched and somewhat humbled, we spent the afternoon at the villa, reading by the pool under the covered terrace while the weather performed various tricks outside. I made coffee and watched the clouds move across the olive groves, feeling that strange contentment that comes from plans being gently thwarted. There is something about British holiday expectations, I reflected, that almost requires a bit of weather drama. We do not quite trust uninterrupted sunshine. It feels like a trick, or a test we are failing.

On our final morning, the weather settled into something perfect. Not too hot, clear skies, a breeze that actually refreshed rather than attacked. We walked a short loop through the Vabriga vineyards, just a gentle hour, and I found myself almost disappointed by the lack of meteorological incident. My partner laughed at me, correctly identifying this as a particularly British form of madness.

We left the walking boots by the door to dry, one pair still damp from three days prior, and I packed the sun hat with a certain affection. Some holidays give you what you expect. Others, like this one, give you the weather you deserve, and somehow that works out better in the end.