I have never been so relieved to see a compost bin in all my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive from Ljubljana Airport to Goriska had been nothing short of glorious. We wound through the Soca Valley with the windows down, my partner Rob at the wheel and our two children in the back arguing about who had more legroom. The hills were impossibly green, the kind of green that makes you wonder if someone has turned up the saturation on reality. Rob kept saying "blimey" every five minutes, which is his default setting for anything remotely scenic.

Then came the mishap. About two miles from our destination, I suddenly remembered that I had been put in charge of the key safe code. I had written it down, I was certain, on a scrap of paper that I had then placed somewhere "safe." You can see where this is going. I emptied my bag onto my lap while Rob navigated ever-narrower lanes, producing three crumpled receipts, a broken crayon, and a leaflet about cave systems that I had no memory of acquiring. The code was nowhere. I tried the Notes app, the Photos app, even a desperate scroll through my emails. Nothing.

By the time we pulled up to Col, a charming stone property with a tidy garden and what I would later learn was a very well-maintained compost area, I was quietly contemplating whether we could simply live in the hire car for the week. Rob, who has the patience of a man who once spent four hours untangling Christmas lights without complaint, simply said, "Right, let's have a look round the back then."

And there it was. The code, photographed on my phone, timestamped three weeks prior, visible in the corner of a picture I had taken of our kitchen compost bin back in Sheffield. I had been so proud of our banana peel recycling that I had immortalised it, and in doing so, accidentally saved our entire holiday. Rob laughed for a solid minute. The children wanted to know why we were looking at a photo of mouldy fruit. I chose not to explain.

The first impression of Col proper, once we had actually gained entry, was one of those immediate exhales. You know the one. The cottage had that particular stillness to it, the kind that makes you aware of how much noise you normally carry around with you. Wooden beams, simple furniture, a kitchen that looked like it had actually been cooked in rather than staged for a photograph. The children bolted upstairs to claim beds before we had even set down our bags. Rob opened the back doors and stood there with his tea, doing his blimey routine at the garden, the hills beyond, and what he swore was a hawk of some description.

I found myself doing something I rarely manage on holiday: nothing at all. Just standing in the kitchen with my coat still on, looking at the light coming through the window and thinking that perhaps I should photograph fewer compost bins and more moments like this. The kind that do not need documenting because they simply settle into you, comfortable and unforced.

By evening, we had walked the lanes immediately around the property, waved at a man tending vines who seemed entirely unsurprised by tourists, and established that the local shop sold a surprisingly decent red wine. The children were filthy from exploring the garden's edges. Rob was already talking about barbecue plans for the outdoor grill. I was thinking about how a forgotten photograph of household waste had led us here, and how some of the best stories begin with small humiliations.

We fell asleep that night to absolute quiet, broken only by an owl and my partner's contented snoring. I woke once, briefly, and remembered the compost bin with a smile. Some holidays dazzle you with grandeur. Others simply let you in, hand you a cup of tea, and wait for you to catch up with yourself. Col did the latter, and I am still catching up, gratefully, one ordinary marvellous day at a time.