Croatia: GIRLS DO ISTRIA

Truffle hunting & tasting

After breakfast at the villa, it was time for Motovun, that postcard hilltop town you’ve probably seen a hundred times on Instagram but can’t believe is real until you’re there. The drive wound through olive groves and vineyards until we reached Miro Tartufi, a small family home tucked right beneath the hill. The air smelled like earth and pine. We were greeted the only proper Istrian way, with homemade rakija and a smile that made us feel instantly at home.

Then came the stars of the show: two truffle-hunting dogs, tails wagging, ready to work. We followed them into the forest, soft ground underfoot, sunlight slicing through the trees. Five minutes in, the dogs started digging. A truffle! We got to hold it, smell it, feel it, the real deal. Then another. And another. By the end, we’d found five. The guide said we were lucky. We said we’d take it.

Back at the house, the family had everything ready, long wooden tables, fresh bread, cheese, and the biggest pan of eggs we’d ever seen. The daughter cracked over forty eggs and grated the truffles we’d just found right into the pan. The smell alone could make you dizzy. We tried truffle cheese, spreads, oils, salt, even cake, yes, truffle cake. Every bite was better than the last. It wasn’t just food; it was love on a plate

We talked, laughed, shopped for souvenirs, and said our goodbyes like we were leaving old friends. Then we drove up to Motovun itself, wandered the cobblestone streets, sipped coffee overlooking endless green fields, bought a few trinkets, and took enough photos to fill a small gallery. Someone joked about hitchhiking down the hill. Honestly, we might have done it if a car had stopped.

Back at the villa, it was a quick change before dinner. The restaurant nearby served the kind of food that ruins you for everything else. We’re still dreaming about those starters. We ended the night the only way you should, full, happy, laughing, and grateful

Wine tasting day

The morning started slow, coffee in hand, sun already kissing the villa walls. After breakfast, we packed up and headed to Buje, a tiny town that somehow managed to steal two hours of our lives. Every corner begged for a photo. Every turn looked like a postcard. We laughed at how something so small could feel so big.

Then came Grožnjan, the kind of place that feels like it was built for dreamers. Cobblestone streets, lavender in the air, hidden art galleries, and soft jazz echoing from somewhere you can’t quite find. Someone twirled to street music, someone found a painting she swore would remind her of this day forever. We called it the fairy hilltop village, because that’s exactly what it was.

But the real magic waited in Rossi. A family winery, five generations deep. You could feel it the second you walked in: the warmth, the welcome, the kind of hospitality money can’t fake. Before we could even sit down, the table was full — prosciutto, cheese, olives, cocktails, wine. The view stretched over the same hills we’d just driven through, and for a second, nobody spoke.

Then the talking started. Then the laughter. Then the singing. The plan was to stay two hours. We stayed four and a half. Time got blurry. Someone started dancing, someone clinked glasses, someone said, “This is what happiness feels like.”

On the way back to the villa, we sang the same song three times too loud, half off-key, and nobody cared. When we arrived, a few girls decided the night wasn’t over, they jumped straight into the pool. The rest of us laughed until our faces hurt. And somewhere between the singing, the splashing, and the last sip of wine, it hit us, we didn’t just spend the day together. We found each other.

Horseback riding

The day started slow, coffee, breakfast, and that quiet mix of excitement and nerves that only comes when you’re about to try something new. None of us were horse girls. Most had never even been near one. But there we were, standing in the Istrian countryside, greeted with homemade rakija and the kind of hospitality that makes you feel like family.

One by one, we met our horses, each with its own personality. Some calm, some stubborn, some clearly in charge. Our guides laughed, gave us a few tips, and before we knew it, we were off, riding through vineyards, dirt paths, and open fields, seeing Istria from a whole new perspective. The air smelled like wild herbs and dust. The view stretched for miles.

Along the way, a few kids joined us, local riders training for championships. They told us about their routines, how early they wake up, how much patience it takes to master this sport. By the end, we understood. Our legs were shaking, our backs sore, and our respect for them sky-high. Two hours felt like ten minutes and a full workout combined.

After saying goodbye to our horses (and sneaking them a few pats and photos), we headed straight to the beach. The moment our feet touched the water, it felt like heaven. We swam, snorkeled, napped in the sun, talked, and laughed until the light started to turn golden. The sunset came slow and soft, all pinks and oranges melting into the sea. Someone whispered, “Can you believe this is real?”

We hugged, took photos, and realized that maybe stepping out of your comfort zone is exactly how you find moments like these, the ones that remind you how good it feels to be alive.

That night, back at the villa, we had dinner, shared stories, and laughed until our bodies told us it was time to rest. Sleep came easy. So did gratitude.

It’s time to say goodbye

The morning came too soon. Suitcases open, clothes everywhere, coffee cups half full. The villa, once loud with laughter, felt a little quieter. We packed, folded, double-checked, and pretended we weren’t already missing each other.

After breakfast and a few rounds of “did anyone see my charger?”, it was time to check out. The drive to the airport felt longer than usual, part of us still trying to hold onto the week that had just changed everything.

There were hugs, tears, promises. Someone said, “Let’s meet again in three months,” and everyone agreed before she even finished the sentence. In Pula, we wandered through the old town one last time, bought matching bracelets, small reminders of the big friendships that started here.

We had coffee in the square, soaking in the last bit of sunshine and the feeling of belonging. At the airport, there were more hugs, more tears, and that quiet kind of silence only people who shared something special understand.

Some girls flew home together, some to different cities, but all of us carried the same thought: this wasn’t the end of the trip, it was the beginning of something bigger.