I have never been so relieved to see a washing line in my life. Fourteen hours after leaving Manchester, there it was: a humble row of pegged-up tea towels, flapping in the late-afternoon breeze like little white flags of surrender. I had found Sodinci. More importantly, I had survived the journey.

The trouble began, as it so often does, with my own misplaced confidence. Somewhere around Graz I decided I did not need the sat nav anymore. "I have a good sense of direction," I told my partner, who made a noise like a deflating airbed. The Slovenian countryside is gorgeous, undeniably, but after the third identical-looking village of neat houses and abundant vegetable gardens, I began to suspect that Austria had somehow crept back up on us. We were not lost, I insisted. We were simply taking the scenic route. Very scenic. Extremely scenic. The sort of scenic that adds ninety minutes to a journey and introduces you to four farm dogs who have absolutely no interest in tourists.

By the time we finally spotted the sign for Sodinci, I had developed what I can only describe as car-induced hysteria. I laughed at a hay bale. I pointed at a field of sunflowers and said "look, happy little chaps" with genuine emotion. My partner was no longer speaking to me, except to note that the fuel light had been on for twenty kilometres.

Then we turned down the lane, and everything changed.

The property sat among rolling farmland in the heart of Podravska, surrounded by the sort of green that makes you wonder if your eyes have been slightly broken all your life and nobody told you. Vineyards climbed gentle slopes nearby. A proper working vineyard, I later learned, though at that moment I was too busy staring at the house itself: a renovated traditional building with that particular Slovenian knack for being both rustic and somehow perfectly put-together. The owners had left the key in a lockbox with a handwritten note that said "welcome, tired travellers" in slightly wobbly English. I have never felt so seen.

I should mention the mishap. The small, funny one that had actually happened hours earlier, at a service station just across the Austrian border. In my enthusiasm to embrace local culture, I had purchased what I believed to be a savoury pastry. It was, in fact, a pot of pork dripping. I realised this only after spreading it thickly on bread and taking a large, confident bite. The face I made caused a nearby lorry driver to actually stop mid-conversation and stare. I ate the bread anyway. I am British. We have standards, however misguided.

But back to Sodinci. The first impression that truly landed, once I had stopped gawping at the landscape, was the quiet. Not empty quiet, but full quiet. Birds, breeze, distant farm machinery, the occasional clank of what I chose to believe was someone making excellent local wine. Inside, the house smelled of wood and clean linen. The kitchen had a proper stove and a table that begged for long breakfasts. There was a terrace where I immediately pictured myself with morning coffee, feeling smug about my excellent holiday choices.

I unpacked badly, as is my tradition. Shoes in the kitchen, toiletries on the stairs, jacket draped over a chair like a shed skin. My partner organised everything with silent efficiency while I stood on the terrace, watching the light change over the Drava valley. The pot of dripping sat in the car, a shameful reminder of my culinary hubris.

That evening we walked to the nearest village, barely ten minutes away, and found a small place serving local wine and simple, perfect food. I did not order pastry. We watched the sun go down over countryside that looked almost impossibly peaceful, and I felt something loosen in my chest that I had not realised was tight.

We had arrived. Finally, properly, happily arrived. The tea towels on the line had known it all along.