I have never been so grateful for air conditioning in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once spent a summer working in a bakery. The journey to our Split Podstrana apartment had been one of those classic holiday experiences where everything goes slightly wrong in a way that becomes funny only in hindsight.

We had flown into Split in late July, which I now realise was my first mistake. The second was deciding to collect our hire car at midday. By the time we had navigated the airport paperwork, argued about whether we needed extra insurance, and finally loaded our suitcases into a vehicle roughly the size of a shoebox, the temperature had climbed to what felt like the surface of Mercury. My partner, ever the optimist, had insisted on wearing jeans. I could see actual damp patches forming on them before we had even left the car park.

The drive to Podstrana should take twenty minutes. Ours took fifty, largely because I became convinced that our sat nav was trying to kill us. It directed us down what I can only describe as a goat track, complete with actual goats, who looked at us with the weary contempt of locals watching another set of tourists make the same mistake. We emerged onto the coastal road eventually, sweaty, slightly traumatised, and in desperate need of the facilities.

Arriving at the apartment complex was like stepping into a different world. The building was modern and clean, all white walls and glass balconies, with palm trees that actually looked like they belonged in a brochure rather than real life. A woman at reception handed us our keys with the practised efficiency of someone who had seen far too many overheated British families that week. I tried to make a joke about the heat. She smiled politely and said, "Yes, July is warm." I have never felt more seen and yet so ignored simultaneously.

The apartment itself was on the second floor, which meant hauling our cases up in stages, like some sort of poorly organised relay race. By the time I reached the door, my shirt had achieved that special state of clinging that normally requires a swimming pool. But then we stepped inside, and the air conditioning hit me like a friendly arctic blast. I actually said "oh thank God" out loud, which I am not proud of, but which was entirely genuine.

The first thing I noticed, once my body temperature returned to something approaching human, was the balcony. It looked directly out towards the Adriatic, that particular shade of blue that makes you understand why people write poems about the sea. The seasonal timing meant the water was at that perfect temperature where you could swim for hours without the initial shock of cold, and the long July evenings meant we would have daylight until nearly nine o'clock. I stood there in my damp shirt, looking at the sailboats drifting past, and felt something shift. The stress of the journey, the heat, the goat incident, all of it started to feel like part of the story rather than the whole of it.

That evening, we walked down to the local shops, which were still open and bustling with the energy of peak season. Tourists and locals mixed together, everyone moving at that slower pace that heat demands. We bought bread, cheese, and a bottle of local wine that cost less than a coffee back home, and ate on that balcony as the sun went down. The air was still warm, but bearable now, carrying the scent of pine from the hills behind us and salt from the sea in front.

I remember thinking that arriving in summer had been the right choice, despite everything. Yes, it was busy. Yes, it was hot enough to make a person reconsider their life choices. But there was something about that seasonal intensity, the way the place felt absolutely alive, that made the mishaps worthwhile. The goats, the sat nav, the damp jeans, they were just the price of admission. And as I sat there with my cheap wine and my spectacular view, I decided it was a price I would happily pay again.