I should have known the holiday gods were having a laugh when our sat nav tried to send us into the Adriatic. There we were, beetling down the coastal road from Dubrovnik, windows down, already smelling the pine and salt, when the robotic voice calmly instructed us to "turn left now" - straight off a cliff and into the wine-dark sea. My partner Dave actually indicated. Actually indicated. We sat there blinking at the drop until a Croatian lorry driver behind us made his feelings known with a horn blast that probably registered on seismographs in Split.

The ferry to Korcula Island was where I first understood that Dalmatian weather operates on pure whimsy. We'd left grey drizzle on the mainland, but as the boat chugged across, the sky performed what I can only describe as meteorological hysterics. One moment blazing sun, the next a squall that sent everyone scrambling for cover like startled crabs. I clutched my anorak, that faithful British companion, wondering if I'd need sun cream or a life raft.

Lumbarda itself hit us like a postcard that had learned three-dimensional tricks. The village sits in this absurdly pretty cove, all sandy beaches and vineyards that crawl up hillsides in orderly green rows. Our stone cottage - one of those proper Dalmatian numbers with shutters that actually work and a terrace that smelled of grilled fish from the neighbour's lunch - perched on a slope that my calves would come to know intimately. The owner, a woman called Marija with hands that looked like they'd spent decades wrestling grapevines, handed us keys and a bottle of her family's Grk wine with the casual generosity that still disarms me about rural Croatia.

"Good for walking," she said, gesturing at the ridge behind the property. "But today, maybe not."

I should have listened. British pride, that stubborn beast, demanded otherwise. The following morning dawned with what I optimistically termed "bright intervals" - meaning I could see clouds of varying threat levels. Dave and I set off for what the guidebook promised was a gentle coastal path to Racisce, perhaps four miles round the headland.

Gentle, it was not. The path started promisingly enough, winding through pine woods where the scent made me drunk with holiday satisfaction. Then the weather arrived. Not gradually, not politely, but with the sudden violence of a slammed door. One moment we're admiring wild rosemary, the next we're horizontal in a bush while rain comes at us horizontally. My anorak surrendered immediately, developing that special British dampness that clings for hours. Dave's "breathable" walking trousers proved breathable in both directions.

We sheltered under an olive tree that offered approximately the protection of a wire coat hanger. There we squatted, two middle-aged Brits in expensive failing gear, watching the storm turn the Adriatic from turquoise to furious grey. I found myself laughing, that slightly unhinged laugh that comes when plans dissolve completely. "We could be in the Peak District," Dave observed, water dripping off his nose. "Except the wine's better here."

The storm passed as abruptly as it arrived, leaving steam rising from every surface and the path transformed into something resembling chocolate mousse. We squelched back to Lumbarda, defeated but weirdly elated, passing vineyards where workers simply paused their pruning until the drama finished, then carried on as if skies don't routinely throw tantrums here.

That evening, wrapped in towels on our terrace, we watched another storm build over the Peljesac peninsula. Marija brought us coffee without comment, though her smile suggested she'd witnessed this particular British ritual before. The lightning forked down towards Orebic, and I felt that particular holiday contentment that comes from being somewhere that refuses your control.

We walked the coastal path three days later, in proper Dalmatian sunshine that made every olive leaf shimmer. It was glorious, effortless, almost boring in its perfection. I found myself missing the storm, the absurdity, the olive tree that had scraped my dignity away. Some holidays give you what you want. The best ones, I've decided, give you stories that improve with each retelling, especially the bits where you ended up in a bush, soaked and laughing, while Croatia did whatever it pleased with the weather.