I have never been so relieved to see a set of keys in a lockbox as I was after three hours of driving from Pula Airport, only to realise I had been confidently navigating us toward Rabac using a map of Slovenia I had accidentally downloaded. My partner sat in the passenger seat, occasionally making that small humming noise people do when they are choosing not to mention something, while I blamed the rental car's GPS, the road signs, and finally the entire concept of Istrian geography.

The final stretch down from Labin should have been straightforward. It is one road, basically. One road with a view of the Kvarner Gulf that makes you want to pull over and weep, except I was too busy muttering about mobile data and whether "Cik697" was actually a postcode or some kind of elaborate Croatian joke. Turns out it is the property code, which I discovered after ringing the letting agency and pretending I had been asking about the wifi password.

The villa sits on a hillside above Rabac proper, which means you get the turquoise water without the full tourist bustle of the harbour front. We arrived at half six, that awkward time when the light is golden and perfect and you are too frazzled to appreciate it. The key was exactly where they said, in a little box that made a satisfying clunk when I finally worked the combination. I had been convinced it would be one of those modern app-based locks that requires seventeen verification steps and your grandmother's maiden name. Small mercies.

The first thing I did, because I am apparently incapable of learning from experience, was attempt to carry three suitcases, a tote bag of snacks, and a bottle of local Teran up the stone steps to the terrace in one go. I made it four steps before the Teran made a break for freedom and rolled directly into a rosemary bush. The bush won. The bottle survived, which felt like a sign from something, possibly just the robust packaging standards of Istrian wineries.

Standing on that terrace finally, wine rescued, proper map loaded, the whole silly journey suddenly seemed worth the chaos. Rabac stretches below in a curve of pebble beaches and pine trees, and across the water you can make out the island of Cres on a clear evening. The villa itself is simple and white-walled, the sort of place where you immediately kick off your shoes and wonder why you own so many possessions at home. A covered dining area, a pool that catches the last light, bedrooms that smell faintly of lavender from whoever cleaned that morning.

I caught my partner looking at me with an expression I have learned to recognise over fifteen years. It is not quite amusement, not quite pity. "Slovenia," they said, finally allowed to say it.

"Slovenia is lovely this time of year," I replied, pouring the Teran into two plastic cups because I had not yet located the proper glasses. "We should go sometime."

We sat on those terrace steps as the sun went down, eating the slightly squashed snacks from my tote bag, listening to the cicadas start up in the pines. Somewhere below us, Rabac was winding into evening, restaurants opening along the Lungomare promenade, fishing boats coming back in. I thought about how I would tell this story later, making myself sound more charmingly hapless than genuinely stressed, and decided that was probably fair enough. The mishaps were already becoming funny, which is the great mercy of holidays, and the rosemary-scented wine tasted better than anything I had planned.