I have never been so grateful to see a washing machine in my entire life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The drive down from Split Airport had been going so well. My partner Dave was navigating, I was at the wheel of our hire car, and the coastal road was doing that thing where every bend reveals another absurdly beautiful view of the Adriatic. We had our windows down, some questionable Croatian pop radio on, and that particular holiday optimism that makes you believe nothing could possibly go wrong.

Then I missed the turning for Solin.

Not by a little. By one of those slow-motion errors where you realise two hundred metres too late, but the road is now a single lane with a stone wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other, and there is absolutely no turning back. Dave gave me that look. You know the one. The "we agreed you would follow the sat nav" look, delivered with the patience of a man who has been married to me for eleven years.

Forty minutes later, having toured what felt like every back road in Central Dalmatia, we finally found our holiday home. The stone villa sat behind a modest wall with a heavy wooden gate, all traditional Dalmatian architecture with those lovely shuttered windows and a terracotta roof that looked like it had been baking in the sun for decades. Proper postcard stuff. I practically fell out of the car with relief.

The key was in the lockbox as promised. I fumbled with the code, dropped it twice, and eventually got the gate open. We dragged our cases through, already sweating in that thick Mediterranean heat that hits you like a warm towel when you are used to Manchester drizzle.

That was when I discovered that my suitcase had not survived the journey. The cheap zip had split somewhere between baggage claim and here, and a trail of my belongings led from the gate, across the little courtyard, right up to the front door. Underwear. Everywhere. A pair of my socks had somehow landed in a potted olive tree. Dave, helpful as ever, stood there laughing so hard he could not speak.

The inside of the villa saved my mood almost instantly. Cool stone floors, that lovely rustic kitchen with wooden beams overhead, and French doors opening onto a terrace with a view of the hills behind and a glimpse of the sea beyond. Someone had left a bottle of local wine on the counter with a handwritten welcome note. I wanted to hug them.

I dumped my remaining clothes and went straight to that washing machine I mentioned. Found it in a little utility room off the kitchen, mercifully straightforward to operate. While it churned through my dignity, I explored the terrace properly. A proper stone barbecue in one corner, a table under a pergola draped with vines, and a pool that caught the afternoon light and looked absolutely irresistible.

Dave appeared with two glasses of that welcome wine. We stood there in our crumpled travel clothes, listening to cicadas in the olive trees, watching the sun start its slow descent toward the hills. My case was ruined, my navigation skills were in tatters, and I was fairly certain one of my better bras was still dangling from that olive tree where the neighbours might spot it.

But honestly? Standing there with the warm stone under my bare feet, smelling pine and herbs and that particular dry heat you only get here, I could not have cared less. Sometimes the messiest arrivals make the best stories. Though I did make Dave fetch the bra after dark.