I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a minor disaster, and our trip to Trogir Kastel Gomilica did not disappoint. The flight into Split was smooth enough, and the drive along the Central Dalmatian Riviera should have been straightforward. But somewhere between the airport and our destination, my partner decided that his phone's GPS knew better than the road signs. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in a supermarket car park in Kastel Stari, arguing about whether we had just invented a new shortcut or were genuinely lost. We were lost.

The mishap that truly defined our arrival, though, came when we finally located the property. I was so relieved to see the stone walls and terracotta roof that I flung open the car door with theatrical enthusiasm. My sunglasses, which had been resting on my lap, launched themselves into a drainage channel with a plink that still haunts me. There I was, crouched by a grate in thirty-degree heat, fishing for cheap plastic frames with a broom handle borrowed from a neighbouring villa. The neighbour, an elderly Croatian gentleman watering his tomatoes, watched this performance without comment. He did not offer help. He simply nodded, as if this was precisely the sort of behaviour he expected from British tourists.

By the time we actually entered the holiday home, I was sweating, half-blind without my shades, and quietly furious with myself. But then the place did that thing that good properties do. It made me forget. The interior was cool and airy, with tiled floors that felt delicious underfoot after the car journey. A small kitchen opened onto a living space that managed to feel both simple and genuinely welcoming. I dumped our bags with more force than necessary and walked straight through to the outdoor area.

The terrace was where I finally stopped being an idiot and started being on holiday. There was a view of the Adriatic that made my drainage channel humiliation feel like a worthwhile trade. The water was that particular shade of blue that photographs never quite capture, dotted with small boats and the distant silhouette of Kastel Gomilica's historic tower. I stood there in my wrinkled travelling clothes, still holding the broken sunglasses, and felt something in my chest unclench.

My partner appeared with two glasses of the local wine we had picked up during our accidental supermarket detour. We sat on the terrace furniture, which was basic but perfectly adequate, and watched the light change over the water. The elderly gentleman had disappeared, presumably satisfied that the British were as ridiculous as rumour suggested.

What struck me most about those first hours was the particular rhythm of the place. The Riviera is not quiet, exactly. There is the sound of the sea, of course, but also the distant chatter from neighbouring properties, the occasional scooter on a nearby road, the clatter of someone preparing dinner in a kitchen somewhere. It is a lived-in sound, not a tourist silence. I found it comforting. It reminded me that people actually live here year-round, that this coast has a continuity beyond our brief visit.

We did not venture far that first evening. The property had everything we needed for a simple meal, and frankly I was not ready to face the world after my sunglasses incident. We cooked badly, drank too much wine, and sat on that terrace until the mosquitoes drove us inside. I remember thinking, as I finally lay down in a bedroom that smelled faintly of lavender and sea salt, that sometimes the messiest arrivals make the sweetest stays. I still believe that. Though I also believe, with equal conviction, that I should buy more expensive sunglasses next time.