I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when my phone decided the Slovenian coast was somewhere in the middle of the Adriatic Sea. There I was, following Google Maps with the confidence of a man who once got lost in his own garden shed, when the sat nav cheerfully announced I had arrived at my destination. I was staring at a fishing boat. Not ideal for a week away.

The actual property, a lovely place called Coast near Koper, was about three miles inland and up a hill that my hire car greeted with all the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to tidy their room. But that wrong turn turned out to be the making of the trip, because in trying to find my bearings I stumbled upon a tiny harbour at Ankaran where an old man was mending nets and selling the morning's catch from a plastic bucket. I bought sea bass I had no idea how to cook and eventually found the house by following a trail of olive groves that smelled absolutely incredible in the late afternoon heat.

First impressions of the property itself were dominated by a terrace that looked out over vineyards rolling down toward the sea. I spent a good twenty minutes just standing there with my ridiculous bucket of fish, feeling slightly foolish but mostly wonderfully far from anywhere familiar. The interior was simple and cool, with shutters that actually worked and a kitchen that, while compact, had clearly seen some proper use. I later discovered the previous guests had left behind a handwritten note recommending a bakery in nearby Bertoki. This would prove significant.

The next morning, determined to avoid further technological mishaps, I set out on foot with no particular plan. This is how I found the abandoned railway line that runs between Koper and Izola, now a walking and cycling path through tunnels and past old stations being slowly reclaimed by fig trees and brambles. In one tunnel, so long and dark I genuinely questioned my life choices halfway through, I emerged to find a family of wild goats staring at me with the undisguised contempt goats do so well. I took a photo. It is blurry. I treasure it.

Getting properly lost became something of a theme. A wrong turning on a vineyard track led me to a crumbling stone chapel where someone had left fresh flowers and a half-empty bottle of local Malvasia. I sat on the step and drank a glass, which felt both slightly naughty and entirely right. The wine was excellent, by the way, honeyed and somehow tasting of the heat that shimmered off the limestone.

The bakery in Bertoki, when I finally found it after two attempts that took me through what I am fairly certain was someone's private courtyard, produced the finest burek I have ever eaten. The woman running it spoke no English, I speak approximately twelve words of Slovenian, and yet through pointing, smiling, and what I can only describe as interpretive dance, I secured a coil of pastry filled with cheese that I ate sitting on a wall watching farmers tend their tomato plants.

By day four I had abandoned any pretence of planning. I followed a path that seemed to lead nowhere and found a swimming spot where locals gathered on flat rocks, diving into water so clear you could watch fish scattering from your shadow. No signs pointed to it. No guidebook mentioned it. I returned there three times and never learned its proper name.

The fish, incidentally, I eventually cooked with guidance from a neighbour who appeared unbidden with lemons from her tree and instructions delivered largely through emphatic hand gestures. It was possibly the best meal I have ever made, though I suspect the setting had something to do with that.

What struck me most about that corner of Slovenia was how generous it felt to the aimless wanderer. The Karst landscape, all limestone and sudden valleys, seems designed to hide things until you are almost upon them. A vineyard here, a cave mouth there, a village square with a fountain that has probably been running since before anyone can remember. I arrived thinking I needed an itinerary and left convinced that the best strategy is simply to set out and see what finds you.

My phone never did fully recover its dignity, incidentally. For the entire week it insisted I was in Croatia. I chose to see this as the device adapting to my newfound philosophy of glorious uncertainty.