I'd packed the car like a game of Tetris played by someone who'd never seen a square block. Three suitcases, a cool bag full of snacks, two overexcited children, and somehow a beach ball had wedged itself behind the handbrake. We were off to Hocko Pohorje in Podravska, Slovenia, and I was already sweating before we'd left the driveway.

The journey from the UK had been the usual carnival of budget airline chaos, followed by a hire car that smelled faintly of onions and optimism. My partner, Mark, had insisted on navigating, which meant arguing with a sat nav that pronounced Slovenian place names as if it were having a mild stroke. "Turn left onto... Poh... Poh-or-je..." it stammered, while Mark nodded sagely as if this made perfect sense.

The mishap came ten minutes from our destination. I'd been banging on about needing a wee for the last half hour, because apparently I have the bladder of a small anxious dog. Mark spotted a sign for what looked like a petrol station and swung in with triumphant flourish. It was a vineyard. A very beautiful, very closed vineyard, with not a toilet in sight and an elderly gentleman staring at us from his tractor with the kind of disappointment I usually reserve for my own reflection. I did an awkward little dance back to the car while the children howled with laughter from their seats. Mark, ever helpful, wound down his window and shouted "Hocko Pohorje?" at the poor man, who simply pointed up the mountain and returned to his grapes, presumably to tell his wife about the mad English people later.

We found the place eventually, winding up through pine-scented roads that made every deep breath feel like a free spa treatment. And there it was - a proper wooden chalet-style house, all red roof and balconies that practically begged for a morning coffee. The sort of place that makes you want to kick off your shoes and forget what day it is.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for an embarrassing length of time while Mark filmed me on his phone, claiming it was "for posterity." The door opened onto that particular smell of wood and clean linen that only holiday cottages seem to manage. The children shot past me, fighting over who got which bedroom, while I stood in the kitchen-living area and felt something in my shoulders actually drop. You know that feeling? When you realise you've been holding tension you didn't even know was there?

I made us all tea with the little bags I'd packed, because I am British and this is my coping mechanism. We sat on the balcony as the light went soft and golden over the Pohorje hills, watching nothing much happen and finding it completely captivating. The kids were unusually quiet, exhausted from travel and probably calculating how to persuade us into the pool tomorrow.

Mark poured something local and wine-coloured into a glass, and we just sat there. No plans, no rushing, no checking work emails because the WiFi was patchy and thank goodness for that. I thought about the vineyard man, and our ridiculous arrival, and how sometimes the mishaps become the stories you actually remember.

Tomorrow we'd figure out the local shops, probably get lost again, definitely eat too much. But for now, this was enough. A wooden house in the Slovenian hills, a cup of tea cooling in my hands, and the certain knowledge that I'd need to apologise to that vineyard owner if I ever saw him again.