Serena Fokschaner advises anyone looking for a different and affordable holiday to visit.

I am so sorry,’ sighed our waiter, Gaspar, with a genuine note of apology in his voice. ‘The taxi is late. The company, you see, only has one car. But that’s Slovenia. Things happen slowly here. We’re a very small country.’

Slovenia is indeed so diminutive you could probably drive around the entire country in one day. But what it lacks in acreage, Slovenia makes up for with an astonishingly concentrated beauty. Wedged between Italy, Croatia, Austria and Hungary, Slovenia (once part of Yugoslavia) is a sparkling green shard in the quilt of mittel Europe, a sort of poor man’s Switzerland of springy meadows, snow-dusted mountains and steamy rivers. If you are tired of broiling beaches or the shared villa, it also makes a different and (affordable) family destination. In two weeks we rafted down a boiling river with a boatload of singing Israelis, swam in a thermal lakes, tobogganed and skirted a gorge (with more singing Israelis). I even found myself getting rather inspired by a UNESCO cave so spectacular it might have sprung from a Lord of the Rings set. We could have abseiled, canyoned, or trotted on Lipizanners (the famously-elegant white horses come from this former outpost of the Austrian empire) but, well, we also wanted a rest. For our children, accustomed to holidays of force-fed culture (‘not another Quattrocento masterpiece...’) this turned out to be the perfect holiday with not a single ‘I’m bored’ to be heard.

A quick flight took us to capital, Ljubljana where even the airport, framed by mountains, is scenic. From here it was a short drive to town. On a summer’s evening, couples and teenagers tarted up for clubbing strolled past baroque buildings towards the willow-fronded river bank. Lights twinkled from restaurants giving the place a laid-back, Italianate feel. By day, this former Habsburg town is the place for gentle pottering and all roads lead to Preseren Square where you can buy an ice-cream and gaze up at the statue of Slovenia’s national poet France Preseren, flanked by his bare-breasted muse.

Or you can take the funicular up to the freshly-restored castle. While the girls wandered around the battlements we visited the exhibition of Slovenian history in an effort to unlock the nation’s psyche. After the Second World War, Slovenia became part of Yugoslavia under Marshall Tito before finally gaining independence in the 1990s, after centuries of what historian Johnson Debeljak describes as: ‘border changes, emigration and powerlessness ithin a larger unit.’ No wonder then that ‘proud’ is a word often used to describe Slovenes.

Two days later we headed westwards, past puffing cyclists and German Dormobiles towards Bovec in the Julian Alps. This area is billed as a destination for adrenaline junkies (we did see lots of men in helmets and wetsuits jumping off rocks in to the foaming river Soca) but our destination was the more family-friendly. Pristava Lepena holiday ‘village’. In reality, this turned out to be a collection of small but perfectly-clean chalets each with a tiny patch of garden. Lipizanners grazed next door and there was a small if rather chilly pool.

Pristava’s owners, Silvia and Milan, met while working at the UN in the 1970s but returned here in the late 1990s to pursue their dream of opening a hotel. They were utterly helpful: providing maps, organising boat trips or laying on archery. One day we took a cable car ride to the upper slopes of Mt Triglav. Climbing Triglav is a rite of passage for Slovenes and the girls watched, amazed, as doughty groups of pensioners headed towards the 2864-metre high summit. This vertiginous terrain was also part of the notorious Isonzo Front, where some of the fiercest fighting in the First World War, between the Italians and the Central Powers, took place (Hemingway records the disasterous Italian retreat in A Farewell to Arms.)

Back at base, on our last night, Milan presided over a barbecue for all the guests who included Czechs, Italians and Germans. There were baked potatoes, grilled buttery trout, slab of torte, the sort of solid Austro-Hungarian food you find all over the country. By the end of the evening, we were sitting round a camp fire while the Lipizanners grazed in the shadow of the dark mountains. A full moon was streaked with clouds; it was (thanks to a few glasses of lovenian red) a magical night.

We saved our cushiest destination for the last week. In the 19th century, Lake Bled was the estination for the health-seeking beau-monde. Today, despite, being Slovenia’s most touristy estination it remains remarkably unspoilt: a mermaid-green lake with a tiny island in the middle. On the island there is a baroque church where visitors are allowed to ring the bell or good luck. Bled Castle looms over the northern shore while the lakeside is dotted with Tim Burton-esque wooden villas.

Our hotel, Vila Bled, was rather special too. Formerly Tito’s summer palace (he had a few of these in plum locations), it is a concrete-clad, post-war time capsule. Don Draper would be at ome in the black-marble cocktail bar while it was easy to imagine Tito taking care of protocol as he paraded the lakeside terraces with the likes of Haile Selassie. Inside, corridors are still lined with red carpets and the banqueting salon has patriotic murals depicting Yugoslavia’s fight for independence (these rather bloody scenes are shrouded in curtains for weddings and festivities).

From here we visited the famous Postojna cave, looked at waterfalls, tried out the toboggan run and pottered around the lake. The hotel does not have a pool but it does have a delightful Lido, with Lino-floored changing rooms. The thermal temperature seldom drops below 23 Centigrade and motor boats are banned so swimming was a treat for the girls (despite the odd shriek when a convoy of swans drifted past). On hot days, swimmers plunged off trees in o the water; gossiping groups of ladies swam sedately past. There are boats for hire or you can step on to one of the gondolas which take you to the island.

Bled is the sort of place where guests linger, like characters in an Anita Brookner novel. It was here that we met Karl and his wife, Diana. Like many Slovenes they had emigrated to
American but now return annually, Cadillac in tow, to spend five months in a rambling suite. Karl, a spry 80-something sporting beret and pencil ‘tache, climbed a mountain every morning. ‘Ah, your beloved mountains,’ said one friend knowingly. ‘Ah.. yes,’ replied Karl turning to us with quiet pride, ‘Slovenia, it’s small, a bit slow...but it is beautiful.’