I had been on the road for the best part of eleven hours when I finally realised my phone charger was still plugged into the socket at the hotel in Munich. This discovery came precisely as my sat nav died, leaving me somewhere on the Slovenian coast with nothing but a crumpled printout and the sort of blind optimism that only a Brit abroad can muster.

The mishap that really set the tone, though, happened about twenty minutes later. I had stopped at a petrol station to ask for directions in my finest phrasebook Slovenian, which I had been practising aloud in the car. "Prosim, kje je Koper?" I announced proudly to the cashier. She looked at me with immense patience and replied in perfect English that I was already in Koper. I had driven straight past the turning for my holiday home, looped round twice, and was now essentially parked outside it without recognising the place. The old town walls were quite literally visible from where I stood. I bought a chocolate bar I did not want and drove away with what dignity remained.

Finding the property itself was blessedly simple after that. A narrow lane, a small gate, and suddenly there it was: a compact stone house with green shutters that looked exactly as it had in the photographs, which never happens. I stood in the little garden for a moment, still clutching my useless phone, and felt something in my shoulders actually drop. The journey had been one of those European epics: Channel Tunnel, French motorways, German roadworks, Austrian alpine views that I was too tired to appreciate properly. Now, finally, arrival.

The key was where promised, and I fumbled with the lock in that particular way you do when you are desperate for a wee and trying to maintain composure. The door opened onto cool tiled floors and that particular Mediterranean smell of stone and dried lavender. I dumped my bags with theatrical exhaustion and explored like a child on a treasure hunt. The kitchen was small but properly equipped, not one of those holiday rentals where you find a single bent fork and a pan with no handle. The living area had wooden beams and a sofa that looked like it had actual stories to tell. Upstairs, the bedroom window framed a slice of terracotta rooftops and, beyond them, a glimpse of the Adriatic that made me laugh out loud. I had done it. I had actually arrived somewhere beautiful through sheer stubbornness and poor navigational skills.

I made terrible instant coffee and took it outside to the terrace. The garden was not large, but someone had planted rosemary and sage in terracotta pots, and a lemon tree in the corner was doing its best despite clearly needing some attention. A cat from a neighbouring property watched me with the frank assessment that cats reserve for strangers. I watched it back. We reached an understanding.

That first evening, I did nothing ambitious at all. I walked ten minutes to a small shop near the old town walls, bought bread and cheese and a bottle of local wine that cost less than a London coffee, and returned to eat on the terrace as the light went soft and golden. The church bells rang somewhere in the medieval centre. The cat reappeared and I shared a corner of cheese, against my better judgement.

Sitting there, slightly sunburned from the drive, slightly giddy from the wine, I thought about how I had nearly talked myself out of this trip. Too far, too complicated, too much driving for one person. Yet here I was, with a dead phone and no charger and absolutely no plans, and I could not remember feeling this peacefully untethered in months. Sometimes you need to get slightly lost to find what you were looking for. Even if what you were looking for was simply a quiet terrace, a decent view, and permission to do absolutely nothing at all.

I woke the next morning to sunlight through green shutters and the distant sound of fishing boats in the harbour, and knew immediately that I would not be rushing anywhere.