I have never been so relieved to see a washing machine in my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey to Pag in Kvarner Bay started with the sort of optimism that only a person who has not yet attempted Croatian roads with a toddler can possess. We flew into Rijeka, picked up a hire car that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and regret, and set off across the bridge to the island. The views were already doing their thing, all glimmering blue water and rocky coastline, and I may have got a bit carried away. I announced to my wife that this was going to be the most relaxing holiday we had ever had. She gave me that look. You know the one.

The mishap arrived approximately forty minutes later, just as we pulled up to our stone cottage near Pag town. I was reversing into what I confidently identified as "our parking spot," failing to notice the rather generous olive tree branch that had other ideas. A sickening scrape, a crunch, and the realisation that I had just introduced the hire car to Croatian agriculture. My wife got out, surveyed the damage, and said nothing. This was worse than saying something. The toddler, meanwhile, found the whole thing hilarious and began making crash noises with surprising accuracy.

The cottage itself, though, immediately began the work of redemption. It was one of those solid stone places with green shutters and a terrace that looked out towards the bay, the sort of property that makes you feel like you have stumbled into someone else's rather lovely life. The owners had left a bottle of local Zutica wine and some figs from their garden, which I took as a peace offering from the universe. I stood on that terrace with my warm wine and surveyed the water, and for about ninety seconds I was a man at peace with himself and his parking decisions.

Inside, the place had that satisfying cottage chaos that families generate within minutes of arrival. The toddler discovered that the kitchen floor made an excellent drum. My wife discovered that I had packed three phone chargers and no sun cream. I discovered that the washing machine was going to be essential after the toddler's travel sickness made its grand entrance on the winding approach road. That pine air freshener in the car had been no match for reality.

We spent that first evening doing very little, which was exactly right. The terrace got the last of the sun, and we could hear the distant sound of someone else's barbecue, laughter carrying across the dry stone walls. Pag town was just a short stroll away, close enough that we could see its lights twinkling across the water, but we did not move. There was bread, there was cheese, there was that wine. The toddler fell asleep on my lap with fig juice on her chin.

I kept going out to check the car, as if the olive tree scratch might have healed itself through some Mediterranean magic. It had not. But standing there in the warm evening, with the scent of herbs and salt and woodsmoke, I found I minded rather less than I expected. The scratch would remind me that I am not, in fact, the competent holiday driver I imagine myself to be. The cottage would remind me that competence is overrated when you have a terrace, a sleeping child, and nowhere particularly to be.

We had a week of this ahead of us. I was already planning to do very little, to let the days find their own rhythm, to accept that some holidays are about small spaces and smaller ambitions. The car would survive. We would survive. The washing machine, bless it, would work harder than any appliance should reasonably be expected to.

That first night, I slept better than I had in months.