I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong front door. There we were, me and my partner, standing on a narrow cobbled street in Trogir's old town, jiggling a key in a lock that absolutely was not having it, while an elderly Croatian gentleman peered at us from his balcony with the kind of amused pity usually reserved for tourists who have made a proper show of themselves. Turns out our actual holiday home was three doors down. The gentleman helpfully shouted directions in a mix of Croatian and enthusiastic hand gestures. We waved our thanks and shuffled off like the seasoned travellers we absolutely are not.

The journey from Split airport had already set the tone. The bus driver had taken one look at our rucksacks and assumed we were off to do some serious trekking. "Walking holiday?" he'd asked, nodding approvingly. We had not the heart to tell him that our primary plan was mostly wandering between cafes and occasionally stretching our legs to justify another gelato. But fate, as it so often does, had other ideas.

Our first morning dawned bright and properly hot, the kind of Dalmatian sunshine that makes a Brit immediately suspicious. We set off with grand intentions, following a coastal path that promised gentle strolls and pretty views. Within an hour I was sweating in places I did not know could sweat, and my partner had developed a sun-induced squint that made her look permanently sceptical. The path turned steeper than advertised, climbing through scrubby maquis towards a viewpoint that seemed to recede like a mirage. We passed olive groves where ancient trees twisted out of rocky soil, and the scent of wild rosemary and sage drifted up with each footfall. It was undeniably gorgeous, in a "my calves are on fire" sort of way.

The weather turned that second afternoon. Not gradually, not politely, but with the sudden theatricality of a Mediterranean summer storm. We had set out for what the guidebook called an "easy amble" to a nearby cove. The sky went from blameless blue to furious grey in roughly the time it took me to remark that it looked "a bit overcast, perhaps." Then came the rain. Not British drizzle, mind you, but proper stair-rods, warm and relentless, turning the path to red mud that clung to our boots like wet concrete. We squelched back to Trogir looking like contestants from some particularly cruel reality show, arriving at our door just as the sun emerged, mocking and golden, as if nothing had happened.

By day three, we had developed what I can only describe as weather-induced paranoia. We studied forecasts with the intensity of meteorologists. We packed waterproofs and sun cream in equal measure, prepared for any meteorological eventuality. The locals seemed baffled by our British obsession with contingency planning. An old woman selling figs at a market stall laughed openly when she saw my partner checking her phone for cloud cover. "You walk?" she asked. "Walk!" she repeated, with a shrug that suggested the weather was merely a suggestion.

We did walk, though. Between storms and sunshine, we covered more ground than either of us had managed on any previous holiday. We huffed up to the cathedral bell tower for views across the terracotta rooftops to the sea. We tramped along the Riva promenade in the cool of early morning, watching fishing boats unload their catch. We attempted a longer coastal route towards Okrug Gornji, turning back when the path became properly treacherous, not from pride but from the sensible realisation that a sprained ankle would ruin our cafe ambitions.

The British weather obsession never quite left us, even under that reliable Croatian sun. Each morning brought the same ritual: curtains opened, sky assessed, rucksack adjusted accordingly. My partner started referring to her waterproof as her "emergency layer," which made it sound like something a spy might deploy. I found myself actually missing a good solid downpour, something I never thought I would admit.

On our final evening, we climbed to a viewpoint above the old town, arriving breathless and slightly ridiculous in our walking boots and sun hats. The sky performed its daily transition from blue to amber to violet, and Trogir's stone walls glowed like honey in the fading light. Somewhere below, a church bell rang. My partner took my hand, still slightly calloused from our unexpected exertions.

"Same time next year?" she asked.

I thought of wrong doors and weather forecasts, of burning calves and sudden storms, of that elderly gentleman's amused face.

"Absolutely," I said. "But maybe I'll write down the actual address."