I have never been so grateful for a sat nav with a sense of humour as I was driving to our Porec Vabriga villa in Istria. Three hours after landing at Pula, we were still circling what I can only describe as a very aggressive olive grove, my partner Mark reading directions with the rising panic of a man who has just realised he packed twelve pairs of socks and no swimming trunks. The mishap, when it came, was gloriously stupid. I reversed into a stone wall that turned out to be the entrance to a vineyard, and the lovely Croatian chap who emerged spoke better English than I do and kindly pretended my bumper had definitely not just murdered his gatepost. We found the villa twenty minutes later, hidden down a track that looked like it had been designed by someone who really did not want to be found.

The place itself was proper Istrian countryside magic. Terracotta roof, shutters that actually shut, and a pool that caught the afternoon sun like it had been waiting just for us. I stood on the terrace with a beer that cost less than a London bus fare and thought, right, this is it, we are walking people now. We are the sort of people who stride purposefully into hills with sensible shoes and return with rosy cheeks and interesting anecdotes about wildflowers.

The next morning I laid out my plans like a general before battle. The Lim Valley trail, I announced, reading from a website on my phone. Twelve kilometres of stunning coastal scenery, moderate difficulty, suitable for all fitness levels. Mark looked at my trainers, which I had last worn to a wedding in 2019, and said nothing. This was wise of him.

We set off in brilliant sunshine, the sort that makes British people immediately suspicious. Within forty minutes I was sweating in places I did not know could sweat, and Mark was making that breathing noise he makes when he is being stoic about my terrible decisions. The path climbed through pine woods that smelled like every expensive candle I have ever failed to buy, and for a while I genuinely believed I had become the outdoorsy version of myself I had always imagined.

Then the weather turned. Not gradually, not politely, but with the sudden enthusiasm of a toddler discovering a new noise. One moment we were admiring a view of the channel that apparently has some connection to Vikings, though I was too busy not dying to read the sign properly. The next, a cloud the colour of my mother's disapproval had parked itself directly above us and begun emptying its entire contents with what felt like personal malice.

We were not prepared. I had brought one small bottle of water, a cereal bar that had melted into something archaeological, and the confidence of a man who had checked a weather app once, three days ago, in a different country. The path turned to something between mud and soup. My wedding trainers, never destined for glory, achieved a new level of uselessness that I can only describe as performance art. Mark slipped on a root and sat down heavily in a puddle, and I laughed for approximately two seconds before joining him.

We squelched back to the villa like defeated soldiers, arriving to find the sun blazing again and the pool looking obnoxiously inviting. I stood on the terrace, dripping onto the stones, and had one of those moments of gentle self-reflection that only really happen on holiday when you are slightly humbled and very wet. I am not a walking person, I realised. I am a person who likes the idea of walking, the aesthetic of walking, the telling-people-at-dinner walking. The actual walking, particularly the uphill-in-a-deluge variety, remains something I should probably approach with more honesty and significantly better footwear.

The rest of the week we adapted gloriously. Morning strolls to the local konoba for coffee became our exercise, perhaps two hundred metres of gentle ambling that left us deserving of a second pastry. We walked to the village shop in Vabriga for bread and cheese, which felt rustic and authentic and conveniently ended at our own kitchen. One afternoon we attempted a gentle coastal path near Lanterna, got caught in another shower because apparently Istrian weather is just like this, and retreated to a beach bar where a very kind woman let us drip on her chairs while we drank wine and watched braver people get wet in the sea.

On our final evening, dry at last, we walked the vineyard track by the villa as the sun went down. Mark pointed out that this was technically walking, and I could not argue. The light turned everything golden, including my ruined trainers drying on the terrace, and I decided that this was my speed. Small walks, good views, immediate access to shelter and refreshments. The British weather instinct that had made me pack a raincoat I never thought I would need had, against all odds, been the most sensible thing I did. It lived in the car, smug and dry, while I learned my limitations one muddy kilometre at a time.

We have already booked to return, which I think says something about either our optimism or our inability to learn from experience. I am bringing better shoes, more respect for Croatian clouds, and absolutely no illusions about my fitness for purpose as an adventurer. Some people are born to stride through wilderness with the wind in their hair. I was born to stride to the pool with a book and a drink, and I have finally made peace with that.