I'd been warned about the Dubrovnik steps, but nothing quite prepares you for the reality. After a three-hour flight from Gatwick to Dubrovnik Airport, a coach transfer that took the scenic route through every coastal village imaginable, and then a final taxi ride that deposited us at the bottom of what felt like a vertical stone staircase, I was already questioning my life choices. The driver pointed upward, said "CDD011," and drove off before I could ask whether he was having a laugh. My partner, ever the optimist, grabbed the smaller suitcase and started climbing. I followed with the large case, promptly caught my flip-flop on a worn limestone step, and performed an elaborate wobble that nearly sent me and my luggage into a neighbour's bougainvillea. A local cat watched the entire performance with the contempt only a Dalmatian feline can muster.

We were visiting in late October, which I'd smugly told everyone was the perfect time to go. "Avoid the crowds," I'd said. "Still warm enough for swimming," I'd promised. "Much more authentic," I'd declared, as if I had any idea what authentic Dalmatia actually meant. The truth, as I stood sweating through my t-shirt in twenty-degree heat that felt considerably warmer when hauling a suitcase up medieval steps, was that October had its own particular character that I was only just beginning to understand.

The first thing that struck me, once I'd recovered enough to appreciate anything, was the light. October in Dalmatia arrives with a softness that July simply doesn't possess. The famous Adriatic blue was still there, still ridiculous in its intensity, but the harsh white glare of summer had given way to something gentler, more golden. It poured through the windows of our apartment at CDD011, which turned out to be worth every single step. The terrace, when I finally stepped onto it with a cold beer from the fridge, offered that classic Dubrovnik view of terracotta roofs descending toward the sea, and the light at four in the afternoon made everything look slightly unreal, like a particularly well-executed film set.

The seasonal shift meant the swimming pool was technically still open but absolutely nobody was using it except us. We had it completely to ourselves one morning, which felt simultaneously luxurious and faintly absurd. The water was brisk, shall we say, and my partner's expression upon entering could only be described as a masterclass in suppressed shock. I lasted perhaps ten minutes before retreating to a sun lounger with a book, wrapped in a towel against a breeze that wouldn't have existed in August. This was October's bargain: perfect solitude, but you had to accept that summer had packed up and left, and what remained was a more contemplative, slightly melancholy kind of beauty.

The evenings came earlier, which reshaped our entire rhythm. Instead of late dinners after prolonged beach sessions, we found ourselves heading out at six, walking the coastal path toward Lapad while the sky performed its sunset routine. The restaurants were still open, still serving the grilled fish and octopus salad we'd come for, but the atmosphere had changed. Waiters had time to chat, to recommend a particular local wine, to explain that their cousin's boat had caught our sea bass that very morning. In July they'd have been too slammed to bother.

There was a moment on our third evening, watching the last light fade over the Elaphiti Islands from our terrace, when I realised something. I'd spent so much energy planning the perfect holiday, worrying about whether October was a foolish choice, whether we'd miss the full summer experience. But sitting there with a glass of Postup, slightly chilly in a light jumper, watching the stars emerge in a sky that still held a trace of warmth, I understood that seasons aren't merely backdrop. They are the experience itself, shaping every interaction, every sensation, every memory you take home. Summer Dubrovnik belongs to everyone; October Dubrovnik, with its empty pools and golden light and unhurried conversations, had somehow become quietly, surprisingly, ours.