I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong front door. There we were, me and the family, standing in the narrow cobbled lane in Piran with three suitcases, a cool bag leaking melted ice lollies, and me jiggling a key in a lock that stubbornly refused to turn. A rather stern-looking local chap peered out from the balcony opposite, arms folded, watching this spectacle unfold. It took my youngest pointing out that our actual holiday home was two doors down for the penny to drop. I waved apologetically at the man, who did not wave back. A cracking start.

The drive down from Ljubljana had been surprisingly painless, mind you. The motorway gives way to rolling hills and then suddenly you are skirting the coast, catching glimpses of blue that make the kids go quiet in the back. Piran sits on a little peninsula jutting into the Adriatic, all terracotta roofs and church towers, and our holiday home was tucked right in the thick of it. The property was one of those traditional stone houses that Piran does so well, narrow and tall with wooden shutters and a small terrace where you could sit with a glass of something cold and pretend you owned the place.

Stepping inside for the first time, the smell of old stone and recent cleaning hit me in a good way. The ground floor had a compact kitchen with terracotta tiles that would stay pleasingly cool underfoot even when the afternoon sun got fierce. My wife immediately started opening cupboards and making approving noises about the proper coffee maker. The children had already bolted upstairs to claim bedrooms, and I could hear the thump of feet on wooden stairs followed by a debate about who got the room with the sea glimpse.

I will be honest, there was a moment standing in that kitchen, still holding the wrong key in my pocket, where I felt the familiar weight of being the one who organises these things. The bookings, the directions, the responsibility for everyone having a nice time. It is a strange pressure, wanting your family to relax whilst you are quietly doing mental calculations about whether you remembered to turn the heating off at home. But then my daughter appeared at the top of the stairs, grinning, and said the terrace had a table perfect for breakfast, and something in me unclenched.

We unpacked with the chaotic energy that families do, bags flung open, swimwear located with triumphant shouts, someone asking where the tea bags were before we had even found the kettle. The afternoon light was starting to turn golden, that particular Adriatic gold that makes everything look like a postcard you do not quite believe you are inside. I made a cup of tea using a mug that was slightly too small, which felt very continental and therefore acceptable.

By early evening we wandered out to get our bearings, threading through lanes barely wide enough for a scooter. The salt smell from the nearby salt pans drifted over, mingling with grilling fish from somewhere close. The children wanted gelato immediately, which we negotiated down to after dinner. We found a small square with a fountain where locals sat on benches and regarded us with the tolerant amusement they probably extend to all visitors who arrive with too much luggage and obvious confusion.

Back at the house, we sat on that terrace as the light faded, sharing a bottle of local white wine that cost less than a London sandwich. The kids were actually talking to us rather than at screens, which felt like a minor miracle. Somewhere a church bell rang. I thought about the wrong door, the leaking cool bag, the general mild chaos of arrival, and decided that this was exactly what we needed. No grand plans, no rushing about. Just this stone house, this family, this particular patch of coast where the days would unfold slowly and the biggest decision would be whether to swim before or after lunch.

Tomorrow we would explore properly, find the beach, perhaps brave the salt pans or simply potter. But for now, the wrong key was forgotten, the ice lollies were a lost cause, and Piran was quietly working its charm on all of us.