I have never been so relieved to see a bridge in my life. After a three-hour drive from Zadar Airport, a ferry crossing that I had somehow got the wrong time for, and a final fifteen minutes of squinting at Google Maps while my other half made helpful comments from the passenger seat, we finally rattled over the Zdrelac Bridge onto Pasman Island. The mishap? I had spent the entire ferry journey proudly announcing that we were staying in "Zdrelac" with a hard Z, like some sort of Croatian pronunciation expert, only for the ticket man to gently correct me with something closer to "Zhdre-lats." I have not lived it down since.

The property sat tucked along the coast, a proper Dalmatian stone house with shutters that looked like they had weathered a few storms and probably a few generations of holidaymakers. We dumped our bags and did what any sensible person does after a journey fuelled by airport sandwiches and stubborn optimism: we went looking for food.

Zdrelac is not the sort of place that shouts about itself, which is precisely its charm. The first evening, we wandered down to a konoba near the water, one of those family-run spots where the menu depends on what the fisherman brought in that morning. I ordered grilled sardines because it felt like the right thing to do, and my word, they were extraordinary. Simple, oily, charred just enough, served with nothing more than lemon and a pile of blitva - that lovely Dalmatian combination of chard and potatoes that I have since failed to recreate three times at home. The house wine came in a carafe with no label, tasted faintly of the sea breeze, and went down far too easily.

The next morning, properly hungry and slightly fuzzy-headed, we found the local market. Small does not begin to describe it. There were perhaps four stalls, one dedicated entirely to dried lavender and honey, another with tomatoes that actually smelled of tomatoes. I bought a bag of figs from an old woman who communicated entirely through gestures and a knowing smile, and we ate them sitting on a wall overlooking the water, watching a man mend his nets. I felt very smug and Mediterranean, until I realised I had fig seeds in my teeth for the rest of the morning.

Determined to make use of the property's outdoor grill, we attempted a proper Dalmatian peka that evening. For the uninitiated, this involves burying meat and vegetables under a domed lid covered in embers, then waiting several hours while drinking wine and pretending you know what you are doing. Our landlord had kindly lent us the equipment and given instructions in a mixture of Croatian and enthusiastic pointing. We chose octopus, because when in Rome, and because I had seen it done properly at a konoba the night before. What followed was four hours of nervous pacing, adding coals at random intervals, and a growing suspicion that we had either created something magnificent or committed a small crime against seafood. The result was edible, just about, though the octopus had the texture of a well-chewed rubber band. We ate it anyway, with more of that dangerous house wine, and laughed until our sides hurt. Some things are about the attempt.

The following nights, we wisely left cooking to the professionals. There is a particular joy in Dalmatian dining that I have not found elsewhere. The pace is glacial in the best possible way. You sit, you order, you wait, you chat, someone brings bread and olive oil that tastes like it was pressed yesterday. The fish arrives when it is ready, which is never when you expect. One evening at a harbour-side place in Zdrelac, we watched the sun drop behind the islands while picking at a plate of prsut - that wonderful Croatian cured ham, sliced so thin you could read through it - and a bowl of olives that had been marinated in something I still cannot identify. We meant to have dinner afterwards. We never quite got round to it.

Breakfast became a ritual of fresh bread from the bakery that opened at half six, proper butter, and cherry tomatoes so sweet they barely needed chewing. I made coffee in the little kitchen, carried it outside in mismatched cups, and felt genuinely annoyed that real life did not allow for this every morning. One day, ambitious from too much caffeine, I attempted to make fritule - those small Dalmatian doughnuts traditionally served at Christmas - using a recipe I found on my phone and ingredients that were not quite right. They emerged from the oil as sad, misshapen lumps, more like failed savoury dumplings than anything festive. We ate them with honey anyway, standing in the kitchen, giggling like teenagers. My other half declared them "rustic," which is the kindest possible lie.

The pubs and bars in Zdrelac itself are not pubs in the British sense, which took some adjustment. There are no handpulls, no sticky carpets, no last orders called with any urgency. Instead, there are shaded terraces where old men play cards and drink tiny cups of coffee that could wake the dead. In the evenings, these same places transform, beer appears in bottles, and someone inevitably puts on music slightly too loud. We found our regular, a place with plastic chairs and a view of the water that would cost fortunes elsewhere, and made friends with the barman through the universal language of pointing at things and smiling. He recommended a local rakija, which I can only describe as fire mixed with regret, and which I absolutely had a second glass of.

By our final evening, we had abandoned any pretence of cooking. We returned to that first konoba, ordered the sardines again, and a whole sea bass baked in salt that the waiter cracked open at the table with theatrical flair. The flesh was moist, perfumed with rosemary and lemon, and we picked at it with our fingers like proper barbarians. We drank grk, a white wine from Korcula that I had never heard of before and now seek out obsessively. The bill came to less than a mediocre pub meal at home, and I felt almost guilty.

Leaving was harder than expected. We packed the car with jars of honey, a bottle of olive oil, and a bag of dried lavender that has since made every cupboard in our house smell like a Croatian grandmother. I drove back over that same bridge, mispronouncing Zdrelac one final time for old times' sake, already planning when we might return. Some holidays impress you with monuments and museums. This one won me over with fish, fire, and the gentle art of doing very little very slowly. I would not have it any other way.