I have never been so grateful for a sat-nav with a sense of humour, which is just as well because mine clearly thought it was auditioning for a comedy panel show. The journey from Split Airport to our holiday home in Kastel Sucurac started well enough, a smooth run along the coastal road with the Adriatic winking at me through the pines. Then, somewhere between Kastel Stari and Kastel Novi, my trusty device decided I absolutely needed to experience a dirt track normally reserved for goats with excellent suspension. I found myself wedged between two stone walls, wondering if I would need to reverse half a mile or simply abandon the hire car and start a new life as a local olive farmer.

The mishap that truly defines this holiday, though, happened about ten minutes after I finally escaped the goat track. Bursting with relief and desperate for the loo, I marched into what I confidently assumed was our villa, only to discover a very confused Croatian grandmother stirring a pot of something fragrant on the stove. Turns out I had misread the house number by one digit and was now standing in someone's kitchen making apologetic noises that sounded vaguely like a distressed seagull. She was remarkably good-natured about it, even pressing a warm fritule into my hand as I backed out, red-faced and muttering. I ate it in the lane, still lost, and it was genuinely the best doughnut I have ever tasted. Shame about the dignity.

When I did finally locate the proper property, a charming stone house with a terrace overlooking the water, I stood there for a good minute just breathing. The British weather obsession runs deep in my bones, and I had spent weeks obsessively checking forecasts, packing three types of waterproof and mentally preparing for disappointment. Instead, I was greeted by that particular quality of Dalmatian light that makes everything look slightly golden, as though the world has been run through an Instagram filter by someone who actually knows what they are doing.

The next morning, armed with walking shoes and a water bottle, I set off for what I had planned as a gentle coastal stroll towards Kastel Gomilica. The British in me had, naturally, dressed for every meteorological eventuality. I was wearing layers that would see me through a Scottish spring, a light fleece tied around my waist, and a rain jacket stuffed in my rucksack just in case. The Dalmatian sun, unimpressed by my preparedness, cranked the temperature up to what felt like the surface of Mercury. Within twenty minutes I was a walking laundry basket, peeling off garments and stuffing them into my bag until I resembled someone who had lost a bet rather than a serious hiker.

I reached Gomilica's famous castle, the one that Game of Thrones fans recognise, and sat on the seawall eating a sandwich that had gone slightly warm and floppy. A local fisherman watched me with what I can only describe as sympathetic amusement. I waved. He waved back. Neither of us mentioned my obvious heat distress.

The weather turned properly dramatic on day three, which I spent attempting a longer loop through the hills behind Sucurac. The morning had been glorious, all blue sky and birdsong, so I had left the rain jacket behind in a fit of misplaced optimism that any British person should know better than to indulge. By midday, a bura wind had whipped up from the northeast, bringing grey clouds that rolled over the coastal mountains like a bad mood. The temperature dropped fifteen degrees in what felt like fifteen minutes. I found myself huddled under an olive tree, wearing every item of clothing I had, watching rain sweep across Kastela Bay in a solid grey wall. The fisherman from Gomilica would have been howling.

I squelched back to the villa looking like something dredged from the harbour, made myself an enormous pot of tea, and sat on the covered terrace watching the storm turn the water white. There is something deeply satisfying about being properly rained on when you have a dry corner to retreat to, something that speaks to a lifetime of British bank holidays and dashed expectations. I felt almost smug about my discomfort, as though I had earned the right to enjoy the warmth of the house.

Once the storm passed, I walked again, because that is what you do here. The paths between the Kastela settlements are old and well-trodden, threading through olive groves and past stone houses where laundry flaps in the reliable afternoon breeze. The light after rain is different, cleaner, and the smell of wet herbs and warm stone is something I will carry with me longer than any photograph.

I never did master the art of dressing correctly for Dalmatian weather. Each morning brought the same ritual of poor decisions and mid-walk adjustments. I became a familiar sight to the locals, I suspect, this British woman perpetually adding or removing layers with the frantic energy of someone trying to solve a puzzle without instructions. The grandmother whose kitchen I invaded probably spotted me from her window, shaking her head and offering another fritule to the universe on my behalf.

On my final evening, I walked slowly along the coast path as the sun set behind the mountains, wearing exactly the right number of garments for perhaps the first time all week. The temperature had settled into something perfect, the air smelled of pine and salt, and my walking shoes had developed that comfortable worn-in feel that only comes from proper use. I thought about my arrival, the wrong house, the goat track, the storms, the layers. Holidays are not really about getting things right, I decided. They are about showing up, getting slightly lost, and eating a doughnut in a lane while reconsidering your life choices.

I would come back tomorrow, I thought, even with the wrong clothes and the dodgy sat-nav. Perhaps especially then.