I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I packed the car keys inside the suitcase and the suitcase inside the boot. There we were, four hours into the drive from Pula Airport, finally winding down through the pine-scented hills towards Rabac, and I was performing an undignified yoga pose across the back seat trying to fish everything out. My wife found this hilarious. My children found it grounds for divorce.

The approach to Rabac does something wonderful to your shoulders though. You feel them drop. The Adriatic starts winking through gaps in the cypress trees, that particular blue that makes you wonder if your sunglasses are playing tricks. Then the town itself appears, clinging to the hillside like it was designed by someone who really enjoys stairs. Our cottage sat up in the Cik area, just enough above the bustle to pretend we were rustic, close enough to pop down for an ice cream without needing a packed lunch.

First impressions of the place were dominated by terrace envy. The photos had not lied. There it was, stone-built and generous, with a view straight down to Kvarner Bay that made me immediately want to do very little for a very long time. The children bolted past me to investigate the pool, which I am told was "freezing but brilliant" before I had even located the front door key. I stood there with my ridiculous suitcase, breathing in pine and barbecue smoke from somewhere nearby, feeling that particular triumph of having chosen somewhere that actually delivers.

The interior had that satisfying Istrian cottage feel. Exposed stonework, wooden beams you would definitely bang your head on if you grew up in a new-build, a kitchen that looked like someone had actually cooked in it rather than just styled it for photographs. My daughter announced the sofa was "vintage" which I think meant she approved. My son was already investigating whether the WiFi reached the pool. Some things about family holidays never change.

I had grand plans for that first evening. We would stroll down to Rabac harbour, select a charming konoba, introduce the children to proper Istrian cuisine. What actually happened was that I opened a bottle of Malvazija on the terrace, the children discovered the satellite TV had British channels, and nobody moved for two hours. The sunset did something obscene with pinks and oranges. A gecko appeared on the wall and my wife named it Gerald. This, I thought, is why we do this. Not the ambitious plans. The accidental stillness.

The mishaps continued gently. I attempted to light the barbecue using what I believed was intuition but was actually incompetence. The local shop provided emergency sausages and excellent patience from the woman behind the counter, who had clearly seen this before. We ate later than planned, slightly charred in places, entirely happy on that terrace with Gerald watching from above.

That first night, lying in bed with the shutters open to let in the cricket song and sea air, I caught myself planning. Always planning. The beaches we would try, the day trips, the experiences we would accumulate. Then I remembered the keys in the suitcase, the failed barbecue, the children glued to dubbed cartoons when they had this view available. Perhaps, I thought, the good stuff happens in the gaps between plans. Perhaps Gerald has the right idea.

We have two weeks here. I suspect I will spend most of them attempting to master that barbecue and failing to rush anywhere. Rabac seems entirely unbothered by my ambitions. I think that is precisely the point.