I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I managed to leave my passport in the glovebox at Split Airport and only realised it halfway through the car hire queue. There I was, doing that frantic pat-down dance that makes you look like you're being attacked by wasps, while my wife gave me the look she has perfected over fifteen years of marriage. The look that says, "I love you, but honestly, how do you function?"

The drive down the A1 was gorgeous once I stopped sweating. Mountains on one side, glimpses of the Adriatic on the other, and the sort of late afternoon light that makes Croatia look like someone has cranked the saturation up too high. We wound down through Makarska, past the promenade already filling up with evening strollers, and carried on toward Baska Voda. The satnav got confused by the narrow lanes near the coast, which is satnav-speak for "you're on your own now, mate."

We found the property eventually, tucked among pines with that particular smell of hot stone and resin that hits you the moment you open the car door. The key was where it should be, which felt like a small miracle given my earlier performance. I fumbled with the lock while the kids bounced around with that explosive energy they store up during long journeys, the kind that makes them treat a simple garden path like an obstacle course.

Stepping inside was like walking into someone's grandmother's house, in the best possible way. Not the minimalist Airbnb aesthetic that makes you afraid to sit down, but actual furniture that looked lived-in, cushions with a bit of squash to them, and a kitchen that promised proper cooking rather than sad microwave meals. The previous occupants had left a half-empty bottle of local rakija on the counter with a note saying "enjoy," which I took as both a welcome and a challenge.

I made the rookie error of claiming the bedroom with the balcony before properly inspecting the mattress. My wife, wise to my ways, tested hers with the scientific thoroughness of someone who knows that a bad bed ruins a holiday. Mine sagged in the middle like a hammock. She raised an eyebrow. I pretended not to notice.

The real magic happened when we finally stepped onto the terrace with our hastily assembled supermarket supper. Bread, cheese, some suspiciously cheap prsut, tomatoes that actually tasted of something. The kids were too tired to bicker. The pine trees rustled in that warm evening breeze that comes off the sea, and somewhere down the hill you could hear the faint clatter of Baska Voda waking up for the night. I had forgotten to bring proper wine glasses so we drank from water tumblers like the sophisticated adults we are.

My daughter pointed out that I had cheese on my shirt. I told her it was a fashion choice. She rolled her eyes with the commitment only an eleven-year-old can manage.

That first night, I lay in my hammock-mattress listening to the unfamiliar sounds. Cicadas, obviously, loud as a factory. The odd car on the road below. My son muttering in his sleep from the next room. And I had one of those moments where you suddenly remember that this is why you bother with the hassle of travel, the packing, the passport panic, the overpriced airport sandwiches. Not for the big moments, but for lying awake in a strange room feeling genuinely glad to be exactly where you are, cheese-stained shirt and all.

The next morning I discovered the coffee maker required a level of engineering expertise I do not possess, and burned my thumb on the kettle. Some things, apparently, do not change just because you have changed your postcode for a week.