I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving vehicle quite so much either. The journey from Split Airport to our holiday home in Makarska had been going swimmingly until I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I knew a shortcut. Three goat tracks, one deeply unimpressed local farmer, and twenty minutes of my partner's meaningful silence later, we finally spotted the sea glinting through the pines and knew we had arrived.

It was late May when we visited, that glorious shoulder season when the Central Dalmatian Riviera starts stretching itself awake after winter but has not quite committed to full summer chaos. The roads were quiet enough that my navigational disaster went largely unwitnessed, and the air carried that particular warmth that makes you roll down the windows and immediately regret it when you hit a cloud of pine pollen. I spent the first ten minutes of our arrival sneezing dramatically while my partner unloaded the cases with the theatrical patience of someone who has seen this performance many times before.

The property sat perched on the hillside with the kind of view that makes you forget, momentarily, that you are a functioning adult with responsibilities. The terrace looked out over the Adriatic, and in late May the light sits lower and longer than it does in high summer, gilding everything in that honeyed afternoon glow that photographers chase and holidaymakers accidentally capture on their phones. I found myself standing there with a cup of tea going cold in my hand, just watching the water change from turquoise to deep blue as the sun began its slow descent behind the Biokovo mountains.

The swimming pool was the temperature of a brave decision in late May, which is to say it took some psychological preparation. My partner plunged in with the enthusiasm of someone who grew up in hardy northern seas, while I spent a good five minutes at the edge making noises like a distressed seal before committing. The seasonal timing meant we had the luxury of space and silence, the kind of holiday rhythm where you notice birdsong because there is no competing soundtrack of August crowds.

Evenings at that time of year carry a slight edge of cool that sends you indoors for a jumper, and we found ourselves cooking simple meals in the kitchen rather than the barbecue we had optimistically packed for. The local market in Makarska town was just hitting its stride, the early summer produce starting to appear alongside the last of the spring greens, and I became mildly obsessed with a particular stall selling cherries that tasted like the ones from my grandmother's garden. I ate an embarrassing quantity, standing at the kitchen counter in my socks, watching the fishing boats come back to harbour.

There is something about visiting a place slightly out of season that makes you feel like you are in on a secret. The beach below was not empty, but it was spacious enough that you could choose your spot without performing the territorial negotiations of peak summer. The water, once you acclimatised, had that clarifying cold that makes you feel properly alive, the kind of temperature that would be described as "refreshing" in estate agent literature and "a bit of a shock" by everyone else.

By our third evening, I had stopped trying to navigate anywhere independently and simply followed my partner's lead, which turned out to be the wisest holiday decision I made. We fell into an easy pattern of morning coffee on the terrace, lazy walks down to the shore when the day warmed, and early evenings watching the light fade over the islands. Late May in Makarska does not demand anything of you; it simply offers itself, warm stone and cool water and cherries by the handful, and I am still slightly surprised by how completely I surrendered to it.