I have never been so grateful for a ferry timetable in my life. We had spent the morning driving down from Split, full of that holiday optimism that makes you ignore your sat nav's increasingly frantic recalculations. By the time we reached the port at Supetar, I had convinced myself that Brac was some mythical island that moved around just to spite tourists. The mishap, of course, was entirely my fault. In my eagerness to book the cheapest crossing, I had somehow selected a sailing that left three hours earlier than our actual arrival. There we stood, two hours early for nothing, clutching lukewarm coffees and watching our supposed ferry disappear toward the horizon. My partner gave me that look. You know the one. The look that says "I love you, but I am absolutely telling everyone about this later."

September in Dalmatia has a particular quality, I discovered during that wait. The summer crowds have thinned to a pleasant murmur, but the sea still holds its warmth like a secret. The light changes too, becoming somehow more golden, more forgiving. Even my ferry blunder seemed less catastrophic sat on that harbour wall, watching local fishermen mend nets with the unhurried pace of men who have never once missed a boat in their lives.

When we finally crossed, the island revealed itself slowly. Brac does not announce itself with drama. The ferry rounds the headland and there are the stone houses, the pines clinging to rocky slopes, the unmistakable scent of wild rosemary and salt that hits you about thirty seconds before you realise you are actually, properly on holiday. Our property sat above a small cove, the kind of place that makes you immediately abandon any ambitious plans for sightseeing. The pool was still swimmable, just, though I will admit my first dip was more of a gasp-filled wade. September water demands a certain commitment.

What struck me most was how the season shaped everything. The owner, a formidable woman called Marija, explained that we had caught the sweet spot. The August families had gone, taking their inflatable crocodiles and their 6am sunbed reservations with them. The grape harvest was beginning in the inland villages, and you could smell the fermenting must on evening breezes. She left us a bottle of her own wine, rough and honest and nothing like the polished stuff in Split supermarkets. "Last of the year," she said, as if this were significant. It was. Everything felt last of the year, slightly melancholy, more precious for it.

The evenings drew in earlier than I expected, that first night especially. We cooked squid we had watched being landed that morning, made a hash of the local chard because I refuse to follow instructions, and ate outside with jumpers on for the first time since spring. The crickets were still going, but their enthusiasm had waned. You could hear actual silence between their songs. I found myself thinking about endings, about how I never appreciate places properly until I sense them closing up for the year. Typical me, really. Always romanticising the thing as it slips away.

The stars, though. September clarity, Marija called it. No summer haze, no light pollution from the disappeared crowds. I have never seen so many, nor felt so small beneath them, still slightly damp from my brave pool encounter, still laughing about that missed ferry, already knowing I would remember this particular September more vividly than whole summers past.