I have never been brilliant with directions, and my first attempt at reaching our holiday flat in Piran proved it. The sat nav got us to Slovenia without fuss, but somewhere near the salt pans it decided we needed an impromptu tour of every narrow lane in the countryside. I found myself wedged between two stone walls, reverse gear working overtime, while a local chap on a scooter watched with what I can only describe as patient amusement. He eventually tapped my window and, in excellent English, asked if I was looking for the sea. I admitted I was. He pointed back the way we had come. We had overshot by a good mile, seduced by a sign that looked official but apparently led nowhere useful. My partner sat in silence, which spoke volumes.

When we finally crept into Piran proper, the late afternoon sun was doing that golden thing it does along this stretch of coast. The old town does not welcome cars with open arms, which I knew but had somehow forgotten in the stress of my navigational failure. We abandoned the hire car in a car park near the water and trudged the final stretch with cases bumping against ancient steps. By then I was too hot, too flustered, and too aware that I had made a simple journey into a minor saga.

Then we turned a corner and there it was. The flat sat in one of those tall, narrow houses that lean together like old friends sharing secrets. A wooden shutter swung gently in the breeze. The smell of something garlicky drifted from a nearby window. I stood there with my ridiculous suitcase and felt the nonsense of the previous hour begin to dissolve.

The key was where promised, and we climbed stairs that creaked with the satisfaction of centuries. The flat itself was simple, uncluttered, with white walls and terracotta floors that stayed cool underfoot. But it was the terrace that stopped me properly. Small, private, with a view straight out over the rooftops to the Gulf of Trieste. A battered wooden chair sat waiting. I sat in it before unpacking a single sock.

We did very little that first evening. Opened wine. Watched the light change. I read the same paragraph of my novel three times because I kept looking up at the water instead. The church bell rang the hour with a sound that seemed almost apologetic for interrupting the quiet. We ate bread and cheese from a shop near the harbour, too lazy to seek out a restaurant, too content to move far.

The days that followed established a rhythm so gentle it barely qualified as rhythm at all. Mornings on that terrace with coffee going cold while I watched fishing boats drift out. Afternoons wandering the narrow streets without purpose, finding squares by accident, sitting on walls when the mood struck. I read three books in ten days, a personal record for recent years. My partner developed a serious relationship with a particular bench on the waterfront. We spoke less than usual and never felt the need to fill silence.

There is something particular about this corner of Slovenia. The Italians are just across the water, and you feel it in the architecture, the food, the way people linger over small things. The salt pans nearby produce a famous fleur de sel, and we bought some as our single concession to activity, then used it barely at all. The local wine is crisp and unpretentious. The sea is not the turquoise postcard of further south but something greener, more honest, more suited to contemplation.

I had arrived thinking I would explore, tick boxes, maybe drive to see something notable. Instead I learned the pattern of light on the terrace at different hours. I learned which cafe would let me sit with one espresso for an hour without fuss. I learned that my partner laughs in her sleep, though only very quietly.

On our final morning I woke early and watched dawn come up over the water. The same wooden chair, now familiar as my own kitchen. I thought about my sat nav failure, my stubborn wrong turn, my ridiculous wall-wedged moment. In another mood I might have felt foolish. Instead I felt almost grateful. Sometimes you need to get properly lost to understand what finding your way back might look like. Piran was not where I thought I was going. It turned out to be exactly where I needed to be.