I have never been so relieved to see a tumble dryer in my life.

The journey to our Pula villa had started with such promise. Bristol to Pula airport, breezy two-hour flight, hire car sorted, and there I was feeling terribly organised with my laminated itinerary. My partner Dave had raised an eyebrow at the laminating but said nothing, which in hindsight should have been warning enough. We collected our Fiat Panda, crammed our cases in, and set off through the Istrian countryside with the windows down and that particular holiday optimism that makes you believe nothing could possibly go wrong.

The villa sat on the edge of Pula's suburbs, close enough to hear distant church bells but surrounded by pine trees and red-tiled roofs stretching into the distance. Stone walls, wooden shutters, a terrace that practically begged for evening wine. We stepped out of the car and I immediately noticed the sky had turned that particular bruised purple that British holidaymakers recognise with a sinking heart. "Just a shower," I said confidently, reaching for my rucksack. The heavens opened. Not Istrian sunshine. Not gentle Mediterranean drizzle. Full Cornish coastal downpour, the sort that finds every gap in your supposedly waterproof jacket.

Dave looked at me. I looked at the laminated itinerary, now wilting in my hand. "Walking tomorrow then?" he said, with the tone of a man who has been married to an optimist for eleven years.

We had planned, you see, to walk the coastline from our villa towards Verudela, then cut inland through the pine forests that carpet this part of Istria. The guidebook promised wild rosemary, abandoned quarries, views of the Brijuni islands shimmering on the horizon. I had packed accordingly: proper boots, OS-style maps downloaded to my phone, emergency flapjack. The British walker abroad, ready to conquer foreign trails with sensible snacks.

The following morning dawned grey and spitting. We set off anyway because we are British and this is what we do. The path from our villa joined a gravel track between olive groves, the sort of walking that should have been effortless and sun-dappled. Instead, the wind picked up from the sea and my waterproof trousers made that embarrassing rustling noise with every step. Dave walked ahead, occasionally turning back with an expression I chose to interpret as supportive rather than smug.

We reached the edge of Verudela after forty minutes, the limestone peninsula stretching into choppy grey water. The beach bars were shuttered, the pedal boats stacked and forlorn. A local dog walker passed us in a proper coat, the kind with a hood that actually functions, and gave us the look reserved for obvious tourists who have misread the forecast. I waved cheerfully. She did not wave back.

The rain intensified as we turned inland, following a marked trail through pine woodland. Here, at least, we had some shelter, though the path became slick with needles and that particular Istrian red clay that clings to boots with determined affection. My laminated itinerary, now safely zipped in a pocket, seemed to mock me. We passed an abandoned stone cottage, roof collapsed, fig tree growing through what had been a doorway. Beautiful, atmospheric, completely impossible to appreciate properly while squinting against horizontal rain.

By midday we were soaked despite every technical fabric I had optimistically purchased from the Go Outdoors sale. We took refuge in a small konoba near the Verudela lighthouse, the sort of place that exists primarily for local workers rather than tourists. The owner brought us prsut and cheese without being asked, correctly identifying people who needed carbohydrates and dignity restoration. We sat by the window watching the weather, and I had one of those moments of gentle self-reflection that holidays sometimes force upon you. There I was, armed with research and planning and laminated documents, fundamentally unprepared for the simple reality that weather happens everywhere, that control is largely illusory, that perhaps eleven years of marriage had taught Dave something about flexibility that I was still acquiring.

We walked back to the villa that afternoon through persistent drizzle, taking a shorter route along the main road. Not the scenic coastal path of my imagination, but practical, functional, done. The Fiat Panda had never looked so welcoming. And yes, the tumble dryer in the villa's utility room became my favourite feature, humming through two loads of damp walking gear while we sat on the covered terrace with tea, watching the rain sweep across the pines.

The weather broke properly three days later, as the forecast had always promised it would. We did our coastal walk eventually, boots finally dry, the Brijuni islands actually visible and shimmering as advertised. It was glorious, every rosemary-scented step of it. But I think I preferred the rainy version, in its strange way. The abandoned cottage in the downpour, the unexpected konoba refuge, the humbling realisation that Istria does not arrange itself around my laminated plans.

Dave has not let me forget the laminating incident. He brings it up whenever I display excessive organisational enthusiasm. And I have learned, slightly, to pack an actually waterproof coat and to walk in whatever weather arrives, because the path through the pines exists whether the sun shines or not, and sometimes the wet version has more to teach you than the perfect one.