I have never been so grateful for air conditioning in my entire life, and that includes the summer I spent working in a pizza kitchen in Swindon. The taxi from Split Airport to our villa in Podstrana was only about forty minutes, but by the time we arrived I had managed to sunburn the back of my neck through the window, drop my sunglasses down the gap between the seat and the door, and somehow convince myself that the driver was taking us to the wrong address because all the stone houses looked identical. He was not. I was just being the classic British tourist who assumes everywhere outside Surrey is basically the same.

We were visiting in late July, which in Dalmatia means one thing: the sun means business. I had checked the forecast before we left, obviously. Thirty-four degrees, it said. I packed factor thirty, a wide-brimmed hat I immediately felt silly wearing, and a misplaced confidence that I would acclimatise quickly. Reader, I did not. The heat hit us like opening an oven door to check on a roast, except the roast was me, and I was already sweating through my linen shirt before the taxi had even stopped.

The villa itself was one of those modern stone places that cling to the hillside above Podstrana, looking down towards the Adriatic. The first thing I noticed, after the view, was the smell of pine and dried herbs that seems to hang in the air that time of year. The second thing was the outdoor kitchen, which I immediately decided I would master during our stay. The third thing was the swimming pool, which I walked straight towards without unpacking, fully clothed, until my partner reminded me that dignity exists.

July in Dalmatia shapes everything. The days start early because the locals know better than to waste the cooler mornings. By eight o'clock the sun is already doing serious work, and by midday the sensible option is retreat. We learned this the hard way on our first day, attempting a walk down to the beach at two in the afternoon. The pebbles were so hot they hurt through my flip-flops. I lasted twelve minutes before declaring it a tactical error and marching back uphill, grumpy and slightly delirious, demanding lemon juice and shade.

The evenings, though. That is when July in Podstrana reveals why people come back year after year. The heat softens into something almost friendly. The crickets start up their endless symphony. We would sit on the terrace with cold white wine from the supermarket in Split, watching the last boats come across the water, and I would feel that particular smugness of being somewhere properly warm while knowing it is raining in Bristol. The outdoor kitchen saw actual use eventually, though mostly for assembling things rather than cooking them. Turning on a grill in that heat felt like an act of aggression against the universe.

There is something about the seasonal intensity of Dalmatia in high summer that strips away pretension. You cannot be elegant in thirty-four degrees. You cannot maintain the person you are in Britain, with its layers and its need for indoor plans. I arrived thinking I would be the sort of traveller who explores Roman ruins and reads serious novels. I became someone whose greatest daily achievement was locating the coldest spot in the pool and staying there until pruned. The season demanded it. The heat shaped each day into a simple rhythm: swim, rest, eat, swim again, watch the sky turn pink, sleep with the air conditioning humming its essential tune.

By the end of the week I had stopped checking the weather. It would be hot. That was the point. That was the whole beautiful, exhausting, slightly undignified point.