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 badly either. The journey from Split Airport to our holiday home in Kastel Gomilica started with such promise. Blue skies, the hire car's air conditioning actually working, and a bag of slightly melted chocolate buttons in the cup holder. Then the sat nav decided that "scenic route" meant "take this baffling series of unnamed roads through olive groves and hope for the best."

We ended up in someone's driveway. An actual driveway. A lovely Croatian gentleman in a vest and flip-flops came out to water his tomatoes and found a British family in a Renault Clio looking absolutely haunted. He pointed us back toward the coast with the patient expression of someone who has done this many times before. We waved apologetically and reversed with the grace of a cow on roller skates.

But then we rounded the final corner, and there it was. The sea. That particular shade of blue that makes you wonder if your eyes are broken. Our holiday home sat right on the water's edge, a traditional stone property with green shutters and a terrace that practically demanded a cold drink. It was late May, that magical window before the summer crowds descend but after the spring chill has properly cleared off. The air smelled of pine and salt and something faintly herbal from the hills behind us. I stood there with my suitcase still in the boot, just breathing it in, until my partner asked if I was having some kind of episode.

The seasonal timing shaped everything about that first afternoon. The sun sat lower than it would in July, casting long golden rectangles across the terrace and making the water sparkle rather than glare. We could sit outside without seeking shade every ten minutes. A light breeze came off the Adriatic, just enough to stop us melting but not so much that napkins went flying. I made the rookie error of unpacking immediately, desperate to settle in, while my smarter half poured two glasses of local white wine and claimed the best chair. By the time I emerged victorious from a battle with a particularly stubborn wardrobe door, the light had shifted again, turning everything peachy and soft.

The village itself felt caught between seasons in the most appealing way. The summer restaurants had opened their terraces but were not yet heaving. An older couple from Zagreb were the only other guests at the little konoba near the waterfront, and we ended up sharing recommendations about which islands to visit when the ferry timetables expanded in June. The owner brought us complimentary prsut and cheese, something he told us he only does "before the madness starts." I liked him enormously and tipped too much out of sheer gratitude for being treated like a person rather than a transaction.

That evening, we walked along the shore path toward the old Kastel fort. The temperature had dropped just enough to need a light cardigan, and the sky put on one of those ridiculous Mediterranean sunsets that make you feel slightly emotional for no reason you can properly articulate. Families were out strolling, children still in shorts despite the cooling air, everyone making the most of these lengthening days before the real heat arrives.

I found myself thinking about how rarely I notice seasonal transitions at home. The British approach to weather is mostly defensive. Here, the shift from spring to early summer felt like an event worth marking, something that changed how people lived and ate and gathered. The local market was full of the last asparagus and the first proper tomatoes. Fishermen were repairing nets with the relaxed pace of people who know their busiest weeks are still ahead.

We fell asleep with the shutters open, that particular Adriatic silence broken only by water lapping against stone and the occasional distant voice from a late dinner. I remember thinking that arriving at exactly this time of year, neither too early nor too late, might be the best travel decision I had ever accidentally made. The sat nav had tried its best to ruin everything, but some places reward even the most incompetent navigation with something worth the chaos.