I have never been so grateful for a wonky sat-nav in all my life. There we were, trundling through the winding coastal roads of Central Dalmatian Riviera, Croatia, convinced we were mere minutes from our Trogir Seget Vranjica holiday home, when the blessed device decided that a narrow gravel track plunging toward the Adriatic was definitely the main road. It was not the main road. It was, in fact, somebody's olive grove, and the somebody in question emerged from between the trees looking thoroughly unimpressed as I performed a twelve-point turn among his ancient trees, muttering apologies through the open window like a proper British embarrassment.

By the time we actually found the property, perched on that glorious hillside with its terracotta roof and those shuttered windows, I was ready to collapse into a deckchair and never move again. But the weather, that fickle companion of every British traveller, had other plans. The morning after our arrival dawned grey and spitting, the sort of drizzle that follows us Brits like a loyal dog we never asked for. My partner looked at me with that particular expression, the one that says "we did not come to Croatia to sit indoors," and so we laced up our walking boots with the grim determination of people who refuse to let meteorological pettiness ruin a perfectly good holiday.

The coastal path from Seget Vranjica toward Trogir became our unlikely salvation. What started as a reluctant stomp through stubborn weather transformed into something genuinely magical, the kind of walk that reminds you why you bothered leaving Surrey in the first place. The limestone underfoot, slick with rain, demanded proper attention; one distracted glance at a fishing boat and you'd find yourself performing an accidental interpretive dance. I speak from humiliating experience, having executed a spectacular windmill-arm recovery in front of a local chap who simply nodded, utterly unphased, as if British people flailing on his coastline were a daily occurrence.

The path hugs the shoreline with that characteristic Dalmatian ruggedness, all aromatic maquis scrub and sudden glimpses of turquoise through gaps in the pines. Each time the rain intensified, we'd duck beneath an olive tree or find shelter in one of those tiny stone chapels scattered like forgotten secrets along the route. There is something peculiarly moving about standing in a centuries-old chapel, rainwater dripping from your nose, contemplating the sheer stubbornness of faith and architecture in equal measure. I found myself reflecting, not for the first time, on how my habitual holiday impatience - that need to tick boxes, maximise sunshine, optimise experiences - simply dissolves when circumstances force a slower pace. The weather had stolen my planned beach day, but it had gifted something quieter in return.

We reached Trogir's medieval core thoroughly soaked and disproportionately pleased with ourselves, like children who've built a den in the rain. The stone streets gleamed silver, empty of the usual summer crowds, and we wandered the Riva with hot coffees from a harbour-side kiosk, watching fishermen mend nets beneath plastic sheeting. That evening, back at our hillside haven, we sat on the terrace as the clouds finally parted, the sunset performing its extravagant Croatian finale across the islands scattered beyond Seget Vranjica.

The following days brought proper sunshine, and with it the longer walks I'd originally planned - the forest trail toward Marina, the ridge path with its panoramic sweeps across the Riviera. But it was that first reluctant hike, born of grey skies and stubborn pride, that stays with me most vividly. Sometimes the weather knows better than we do, and sometimes a wrong turn through an olive grove leads exactly where you needed to be.