I should have known the sat-nav was up to no good when it tried to send us through what looked like someone's olive grove. Three hours after landing at Pula, my partner and I were still navigating the winding Istrian backroads, convinced we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere near Buje. The mishap came when I confidently declared I knew a shortcut, which led us down a gravel track that ended at a locked farm gate, complete with a dog that looked deeply unimpressed with our life choices. We had to reverse nearly half a mile, me red-faced and muttering, my partner doing that silent laughing thing where she looks out the window so I cannot see her face.

By the time we reached Umag and the Crveni Vrh peninsula, I was ready to kiss the tarmac. The property sat nestled among pines with that particular Mediterranean hush that makes British countryside seem almost rowdy by comparison. We dumped our bags and did what any self-respecting holidaymaker would do: headed straight for the coastal path, full of ambitious plans for the week ahead.

I had researched walks, you see. The Istrian coastline promised dramatic clifftop trails, hidden coves, pine-scented headlands stretching toward Slovenia. I had packed proper boots, breathable layers, even one of those foldable rain jackets that packs down to the size of a sandwich. I was prepared.

The first morning dawned grey and spitty, the sort of weather that would not commit to actual rain but certainly would not commit to sunshine either. We set off anyway, following the marked trail south from Crveni Vrh toward Katoro. The path clung to rocky outcrops above turquoise water that looked almost aggressive in its beauty against the dull sky. Within twenty minutes, that sandwich-sized rain jacket was deployed. Within forty, we were discussing whether "mizzle" was an actual meteorological term or just something my grandmother made up.

The second day brought proper rain, the sort that comes sideways and makes you question every life choice that led you to walking holidays. We attempted a shorter loop through the pine woods behind the property, figuring trees would offer shelter. They did not. Pines, we discovered, are excellent at collecting water and then dumping it on you in sudden, freezing dollops. We returned looking like something dredged from the sea, laughing hysterically in that slightly unhinged way that comes from mild hypothermia and shared stupidity.

By day three, the weather had broken into something approaching British summer: overcast, humid, occasional bursts of warmth that felt almost apologetic. We walked to a small pebble beach we had spotted from the clifftops, scrambling down a path that was definitely not on any official map. The swimming was brief and character-building, the sort where your feet lose feeling and your chest tightens and you emerge feeling enormously pleased with yourself for no good reason.

What I had not expected was how the weather would reshape the entire week. Sunny Istria, the brochures promised. The Croatian Riviera. Instead, we got something far more familiar, and strangely more intimate. The trails were emptier. The cafes we ducked into for shelter became conversations with locals who found our dedication either admirable or medically concerning. One elderly man in Umag town brought us extra napkins without being asked, shaking his head and smiling.

There was a moment on the fifth day, walking through olive groves that smelled of rain on warm stone, when I realised something. I had come chasing the postcard version of this place, the sun-drenched ideal. Instead, I got something muddier, more uncertain, more ours somehow. The British instinct to walk regardless of conditions, to treat weather as personal challenge rather than deterrent, had revealed a different Istria. Misty coves where the water looked black and mysterious. Forest paths where the pines stood in silent, dripping columns. The sound of our own breathing on empty trails.

We did get one perfect day before leaving. Blue sky, gentle breeze, that crystalline Adriatic light that makes everything look slightly unreal. We walked the same coastal path from that first morning, and it was glorious, truly. But I found myself missing the grey version, the one where we got lost in weather and each other's company, where the landscape felt less like a display and more like a conversation.

The sat-nav tried to send us through the olive grove again on the way back to Pula. I followed it, just to see. The gate was still locked. The dog still unimpressed. Some things, at least, remained perfectly consistent.