I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to leave my passport in the glovebox at Split Airport. There I was, standing at the car hire desk with a queue forming behind me, rummaging through a bag that contained everything except the one thing I actually needed. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The kids had already spotted a vending machine and were asking for kuna coins for fizzy drinks I had no intention of buying them. Twenty minutes of mild panic and one very patient Croatian gentleman later, I was back, slightly sweatier, clutching my passport like I'd won the lottery.

The drive to Ciovo Slatine took about forty minutes, winding along the coastal road with the Adriatic glittering to our left. I kept the windows down and pretended I hadn't just made a complete tool of myself. The kids were already bickering about whose turn it was for the window seat, which felt like proper holiday tradition by that point.

We found the property down a narrow lane, past a couple of old stone houses with geraniums spilling from window boxes. The sort of lane where you hold your breath hoping nothing comes the other way. Our holiday home sat there, all whitewashed walls and terracotta roof, looking terribly pleased with itself in the afternoon sun. I immediately tried to reverse into the parking space, clipped a wheelie bin, and decided that was quite enough driving for one day.

Stepping inside, the first thing that hit me was the smell of pine furniture and whatever cleaning product makes holiday rentals smell like holiday rentals. The living area opened straight onto a terrace through glass doors, and beyond that, the sea winked at us like an old friend. The kids bolted past me, already claiming bedrooms, while my wife and I stood there in that particular exhausted silence that follows any journey with children.

I made the mistake of offering to unpack the car while everyone else explored. This meant three trips up and down uneven stone steps in flip-flops, each one threatening to send me sprawling. By the time I'd finished, I'd already lost one of the kids' favourite teddies somewhere between the boot and the kitchen, discovered that Croatian supermarket bread goes stale at roughly twice the speed of British bread, and somehow managed to trap my finger in the outdoor shower door. The shower, I should mention, was a delightful addition that I would come to appreciate properly once I'd stopped swearing at it.

That first evening, we walked the five minutes down to Slatine's little harbour area. Nothing grand, just a few fishing boats, a couple of cafes with plastic chairs, and locals strolling about as the heat finally relented. We ate grilled fish that the children suspiciously prodded before declaring acceptable, and I drank a cold Karlovacko that tasted like the best beer I'd ever had, which probably says more about my stress levels than Croatian brewing.

Sitting there with my feet up, watching my daughter attempt to befriend a disinterested cat, I had one of those moments. You know, where you realise that the passport panic and the wheelie bin and the trapped finger don't actually matter. This was the chaos of family holidays. The simple, messy, lovely chaos of it. And somewhere in that quiet harbour, with the smell of pine and sea salt and grilled octopus drifting past, I felt properly glad we'd come.