I have never been brilliant with directions, and my first attempt at finding our Trogir Plano villa proved this beyond doubt. We had flown into Split in late September, when the summer crowds were thinning and the air carried that particular golden quality you only get in early autumn on the Dalmatian coast. The hire car satnav had other ideas about our destination, sending us down a narrow lane where an elderly gentleman was herding goats. My partner gave me that look. I smiled brightly and reversed for what felt like half a mile.

September, I was learning, was a month of transitions in Central Dalmatia. The grape harvest was underway, and the roadsides near Trogir were dotted with small trailers loaded with crates of white grapes destined for local winemakers. We passed these twice, thanks to my navigational skills, before finally spotting the stone wall and wooden gate of our villa.

The first thing that struck me was the garden. In high summer I imagined it would be a sun-baked terrace, all harsh light and desperate seeking of shade. Now, in late September, the olive trees cast soft shadows across the stone patio, and the bougainvillea still clung to its colour though slightly faded at the edges, like a favourite shirt washed one too many times. The pool water, unheated, held that particular challenge of autumn swimming - inviting enough in midday sun, genuinely bracing before ten in the morning. I made this discovery personally on our first day, yelping my way through twenty lengths while my partner filmed from a lounger wrapped in a light cardigan.

The villa itself felt designed for exactly this time of year. The thick stone walls kept the interior cool without air conditioning, which in August would have been merely adequate but in September felt almost luxurious. The covered terrace became our headquarters - warm enough for breakfast in t-shirts, cool enough by evening to justify lighting the outdoor fireplace that came with the property. We spent three evenings huddled there with local red wine, watching the last swallows of summer dart above before their migration, feeling smug about our timing.

The nearby village of Plano revealed itself differently than it would in peak season. The small konoba we found, barely marked from the road, had space for us without reservation. The owner, a woman in her sixties with hands that spoke of decades of cooking, explained that her tomato sauce was the final batch from her garden - the plants were already yellowing, she said, gesturing toward her allotment visible through the kitchen window. We ate it with homemade pasta and felt the particular pleasure of eating something that would genuinely not be available in a fortnight's time.

The beach at Plano, a short drive away, showed September's influence most clearly. The shoreline that I imagined packed with umbrellas in August now had stretches completely empty. The sea, though, had spent all summer warming and retained that swimming-pool comfort that the air temperature no longer guaranteed. We developed a routine: swim, retreat to towels when clouds passed, swim again when sun reappeared. The changing weather added a drama that constant August sunshine could not match.

Trogir itself, that gorgeous stone town on its island, felt properly explorable without the summer siege. We wandered the cathedral and the narrow streets without queueing, without the desperate hunt for shade. A local artist had set up his watercolours in a small square, something he told us he only did once the cruise ship crowds departed. His paintings featured autumn light on the cathedral, a subject he said was impossible in summer's harsh glare.

By our final evening, a storm had built over the mainland mountains, something apparently common as September progressed toward October. We watched lightning flicker behind Trogir's skyline from our terrace, the outdoor fireplace crackling against the sudden chill, drinking the last of our wine. My partner observed that I had finally learned the route to the villa without satnav assistance. I admitted this was true, though I suspected the goat-herding gentleman would always feature in my memory of arrival.

The seasonal timing had shaped everything: the temperature, the crowds, the food available, even the quality of light for photographs. I understood now why the property's autumn rates were lower, and I felt slightly guilty for benefiting from this, as if we had discovered a secret that summer visitors never learned. The mishap of arrival seemed fitting somehow - September in Dalmatia rewarded the slightly lost, the off-season explorers, those willing to embrace a swimming pool that demanded commitment rather than casual entry.