The thing about driving to Tolmin is that you convince yourself the journey is half the adventure, right up until hour six when your backside has fused to the seat and you've argued with your sat nav three times about whether that dirt track counts as a road. We'd set off from Stansted at some ungodly hour, flown to Ljubljana, picked up a hire car that smelled faintly of wet dog, and promptly got lost in the sort of countryside that makes you wonder if you've accidentally driven into a screensaver.

My partner Dave had insisted on navigating. This was our first mistake. Our second was trusting him when he said, "That sign definitely said Tolmin," when in fact it had said something entirely different in Slovenian that probably meant "abandon hope, tourists." We ended up down a single-track lane with grass growing down the middle, me gripping the steering wheel and making that noise I make when I'm trying not to say something I'll regret. You know the one. Somewhere between a hum and a death rattle.

The mishap came when we finally spotted what looked like our turn. I swung the car left with perhaps too much enthusiasm, heard a dreadful scraping sound, and discovered I'd mounted a very small, very hidden concrete bollard. Not over it, mind you. Just... mounted it. Teetering there like a see-saw. Dave got out to assess the damage and immediately started laughing, which I found deeply unhelpful until I saw the absurdity of it: our little Renault, front wheels dangling, back wheels on solid ground, in the middle of absolutely nowhere in the Julian Alps. A farmer eventually wandered over, said something cheerful in Slovenian, and produced a wooden plank from his barn. Ten minutes of undignified shuffling later, we were free, slightly humbled, and definitely ready for a drink.

When we finally found the actual property, down a proper lane with actual tarmac, I nearly wept with relief. And then I actually did well up a bit, but I blamed it on the pollen.

The house sat there like something from a storybook, all wooden beams and that particular hush that only comes from being surrounded by proper mountains. You know when you arrive somewhere and your shoulders just drop? That. Immediate, involuntary relaxation. The owner had left the key in a lockbox with a handwritten note that said "Welcome to paradise" in slightly wobbly English, and I thought, alright, maybe the bollard was worth it.

Inside, the place smelled of pine and something faintly herby, probably from the garden. The kitchen had one of those proper wooden tables that's already seen a thousand breakfasts, and windows that framed the Soca Valley like a painting someone had hung especially for us. I kept opening cupboards just to see what was there, which Dave found odd until he started doing it too. There was a coffee maker that looked like it meant business, and someone had left a bottle of local wine with another note saying "For the journey." If only they'd known.

I walked out onto the terrace in my socks, because I couldn't be bothered with shoes after nine hours of travel, and just stood there. The river was somewhere below, making that particular rushing sound that makes you feel like your blood pressure is dropping by the second. A bird I couldn't identify did something melodic in a tree. I thought about how I'd nearly had a breakdown over a concrete bollard three miles back, and how completely ridiculous that seemed now.

Dave appeared with two glasses of that welcome wine, still grinning about the car incident. "Best holiday ever," he said, and I threw a tea towel at him, but I was smiling too. Some arrivals are smooth and sensible. Ours had been chaos and scraping metal and a farmer with a plank. But standing there, with the mountains going pink in the evening light and the smell of pine all around us, I wouldn't have changed a single thing. Well. Maybe the bollard.