I'd left the sat-nav running in Slovene for the entire drive from Ljubljana Airport, which seemed terribly authentic at the time. Less so when it cheerfully directed me down what turned out to be a farm track, depositing us at a very unimpressed goat. My wife gave me that look. The children found it hysterical. I reversed with what dignity I could muster, which was none whatsoever, and eventually found the proper road into Izola.

The town crept up on us rather pleasantly, all pastel houses and fishing boats bobbing about. We'd booked a cottage-style place through Novasol, one of those proper family setups with a terrace and enough rooms that nobody need murder anyone by day three. The key collection was at a nearby office, straightforward enough, though I managed to lock the car with the keys still inside. Twice. The second time, the chap at the desk actually laughed out loud. Fair play to him.

Walking into the property proper, the first thing that struck me was the smell of pine from the terrace decking. That and the absolute silence, broken only by some distant cicadas and my youngest asking whether Slovenia had Wi-Fi. The place had that satisfying holiday-cottage feel: slightly mismatched furniture that somehow works, a kitchen with enough pots to attempt proper cooking, and a terrace that immediately became the centre of operations. The children vanished upstairs to argue over beds. My wife and I stood on that terrace with cold drinks from the supermarket round the corner, watching the light change over the rooftops towards the sea.

I'd worried Izola might be too quiet. Wrongheaded, that. The old town sits on a peninsula jutting into the Adriatic, and we spent that first evening simply wandering the narrow streets, getting pleasantly lost, emerging suddenly at the harbour where fishermen were mending nets and teenagers were showing off on scooters. The children demanded pizza; we found a place on the waterfront where the dough was proper and the wine was local and alarmingly inexpensive. My daughter declared it "the best holiday ever" approximately forty minutes in. My son was too busy with his third bread roll to comment.

Back at the cottage, the terrace proved its worth. We sat out with the last of the wine, watching moths batter themselves against the light, discussing nothing in particular. That's the thing about these cottage holidays, isn't it? The luxury isn't glamour. It's having space to spread out, to leave muddy shoes by the door, to make a terrible attempt at local cooking because the fish market looked tempting. I burned the fish, naturally. We ate it anyway, on the terrace, with more of that cheap wine and no regrets.

The mishaps continued, because they always do. I forgot to buy washing-up liquid and had to make an emergency morning run. The outdoor light fused. My son discovered that sea urchins exist the hard way. But sitting there that first evening, slightly sun-touched and properly relaxed, I felt that particular cottage-holiday contentment settle in. No hotel breakfast rush, no fighting for sun loungers, just the simple rhythm of a family doing very little together.

We'd arrived frazzled and slightly lost, literally and otherwise. By morning, the sat-nav was firmly in English, the goat was behind us, and Izola had already worked its modest, unhurried charm. Some holidays announce themselves with grandeur. This one simply opened its door, handed us a terrace and a pine-scented breeze, and let us find our own pace. I rather loved it for that.