I have never been so grateful for a lumpy airport croissant in my entire life. There I was, sat on a delayed flight to Split, having inhaled said pastry in approximately four seconds flat because I am incapable of pacing myself around baked goods. This would prove to be a theme for the week.

The journey from London had already involved the usual chaos: a chap in front of me attempting to board with what appeared to be an industrial-sized toaster as hand luggage, and me realising halfway through security that I had packed seventeen pairs of socks but no actual sun cream. Classic. By the time we finally touched down in Split, I was running on pure caffeine and that questionable croquette of regret.

Stepping out of the airport into late September warmth was like walking into a gentle hug from an old friend who had just come back from the oven. The summer crowds had thinned considerably, which meant I did not have to wrestle anyone for a taxi. My driver, a magnificent man called Goran who communicated exclusively in gestures and Led Zeppelin, deposited me at the property with a flourish that suggested he had just delivered me to a palace rather than a perfectly lovely holiday let.

And it was lovely. The stone walls had that particular honeyed glow that only seems to happen in Dalmatia when the light starts shifting towards autumn. The balcony overlooked a tangle of terracotta roofs and, beyond them, the sort of blue sea that makes you question every life choice that has kept you living inland. But here is the thing about late September: the light is different. It is softer, more forgiving, stretching the afternoons into these golden ribbons of time that feel almost stolen. I stood there with my ridiculous amount of socks and felt something in my shoulders actually release.

The mishap, though. I must tell you about the mishap. In my croissant-fuelled haze, I had somehow managed to book the wrong arrival date in my own calendar. By twenty-four hours. So there I was, knocking on the property door like a confused traveller in a mediocre farce, while the actual booking did not begin until the following afternoon. The neighbour, an elderly woman tending to what I can only describe as an aggressive amount of basil, watched this unfold with the patient amusement of someone who has seen many British people make many British mistakes.

I ended up spending that unexpected night at a small guesthouse round the corner, run by a couple who fed me fish soup and told me, in broken English and expansive hand movements, that September was the only month to visit. "The water still warm," the husband insisted, "but the people? Gone." He made a sweeping gesture that I think was meant to represent tourists evaporating into the ether.

He was not wrong. When I finally did get into the property proper, the rhythm of the place was entirely dictated by this gentle seasonal slide. Mornings were slow and slightly misty, the kind where you wrap yourself in a cardigan with your coffee and watch the harbour wake up. By midday the sun had burned through, warm enough for swimming but not so fierce that you felt personally attacked by it. The local market, just a short wander away, had shifted from the frantic peak-season energy to something more communal and forgiving. Stall holders had time to chat, to press an extra fig into your hand, to explain which olive oil was actually worth the kuna.

Evenings brought that particular autumnal melancholy that I find completely addictive. The sunset seemed to last hours, painting everything in these impossible apricot tones, and the air carried the first whisper of chill that made eating outside feel like a small triumph. I cooked terribly, by the way. The kitchen was perfectly adequate; I was the problem. My attempt at a local fish dish ended up as what I can only describe as a seafood-related disaster, eaten on that balcony with perhaps too much wine and absolutely no regrets.

There is something about being slightly out of season that strips away performance. You are not there to tick boxes or capture the perfect photograph for people you went to school with. You are simply there, in the honey light, making a mess of local cuisine, wearing all seventeen pairs of socks because you overpacked and under-thought. I have never felt more genuinely on holiday in my life.