I have never been so relieved to see a sign for "Vir" in my entire life, and that includes the time I accidentally got on the wrong train to Milton Keynes. The journey from Zadar Airport had been straightforward enough, or so I thought, until my phone decided that Croatian data roaming was beneath its dignity and died somewhere between the hire car desk and the first roundabout. Cue twenty minutes of increasingly theatrical map-reading, a minor argument with a sat nav that only spoke German, and one deeply embarrassing U-turn in front of what I can only describe as a very judgmental herd of goats.

By the time I pulled up at the property, I was ready to kiss the gravel. The place looked exactly as I'd hoped, all whitewashed walls and terracotta roof tiles, with that particular quality of Mediterranean light that makes everything look slightly unreal, like someone's filtered the entire world through a pleasant Instagram preset. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a man who had been driving in circles for the better part of an afternoon and immediately set out to explore on foot, because apparently I cannot sit still for more than four minutes on holiday.

Vir is one of those islands that feels like a proper discovery even though it is connected to the mainland by a bridge, which rather spoils the Robinson Crusoe fantasy but does wonders for the accessibility. I had grand plans for serious hiking, the sort of ambitious striding about that would justify several large dinners of prsut and cheese later. The island's interior is crisscrossed with dusty tracks and old stone walls, the kind of landscape that makes you feel pleasantly rugged without actually requiring any real mountaineering competence.

The weather, naturally, had other ideas. I woke the next morning to what I can only describe as distinctly British conditions, which felt like a personal insult given I had specifically left Britain to escape them. Low grey clouds, a persistent drizzle, and that particular damp chill that seeps into your bones regardless of what you're wearing. I stood on the terrace in my shorts and optimistic attitude, watching the rain turn the red dust to mud, and had one of those moments of quiet self-reflection. Here I was, a man who had packed three pairs of walking boots and no waterproof jacket, because apparently I believed Dalmatia existed in a permanent state of glorious sunshine. The hubris of the British holidaymaker, I thought, is truly boundless.

I went anyway, because stubbornness is also a defining characteristic. The coastal path around the south of the island became a study in perseverance, my trainers making satisfying squelching noises as I squinted through the drizzle at the Adriatic, which had turned an appropriately dramatic shade of grey-green. Every so often the clouds would part with theatrical timing, throwing a shaft of sunlight across the water that made the whole endeavour feel briefly magical, before clamping shut again and depositing another load of rain down my neck.

I passed maybe three other people, all of them looking similarly damp and determined, and we exchanged the brief nods of mutual recognition that outdoor enthusiasts reserve for those suffering equally. The stone walls were slick with moisture, the wild herbs released their scent in the damp air, and somewhere a dog barked with the enthusiasm of an animal that did not have to be outside in this weather.

By afternoon I had walked perhaps eight miles of increasingly muddy track, developed a profound appreciation for the word "humid," and decided that self-improvement through nature was entirely overrated. I retreated to a konoba near the harbour, ordered a coffee that tasted of proper Italian-style roasting, and watched the rain make patterns on the water while my boots dried in a state of mild embarrassment by the door.

The weather cleared by evening, naturally, painting the sky in those ridiculous sunset colours that make you forgive everything. I walked back to the property along the shore as the light faded, still damp, still slightly chastened, but grinning like an idiot because somehow the whole ridiculous day had been exactly what I needed. The British weather had followed me to Croatia, and I had walked through it regardless, and somehow that felt like a small victory worth celebrating.