I have never been more grateful for a pair of walking boots in my life, and I say that as someone who once wore flip-flops to a wedding. The journey to Vis Grad Vis on the island of Vis began with the sort of comedy that only British holidaymakers seem to attract. I had meticulously planned my route: flight to Split, ferry to Vis town, then a leisurely stroll to the property. What I had not planned for was my own spectacular ability to misread a timetable. I arrived at the ferry terminal two hours early, convinced I was cutting it fine, then spent those hours drinking overpriced coffee and congratulating myself on my punctuality. When the actual ferry departed from a different pier entirely, I found myself sprinting through Split with a rucksack bouncing against my spine like an angry child. I made it by thirty seconds, collapsing onto the deck with the grace of a seal on a slipway.

The crossing itself was glorious, which only made my earlier panic feel more ridiculous. The Adriatic shimmered in that particular way that makes you forget every grey Tuesday you have ever endured in Britain. By the time Vis town appeared around the headland, white buildings climbing up from a protected bay, I had almost forgiven myself for the morning's chaos. Almost.

The walk from the ferry to Vis Grad Vis should have taken fifteen minutes. It took forty, because I kept stopping to gawp at the place. The property sits in a quiet spot just above the town, surrounded by pines and with views that make you want to sit down and write poetry, even if you have never written poetry and have no intention of starting. The stone building looked exactly as the photographs had promised, which never happens, and I experienced that rare holiday feeling of something actually meeting expectations.

I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of someone who had been wearing the same clothes for fourteen hours and immediately set out to explore. The island of Vis is a walker's paradise, and I had packed accordingly. Or so I thought. The first afternoon, I headed toward the Fort George path, a gentle coastal route that promised ruins and swimming spots. The sun beat down with the kind of intensity that makes British people behave strangely, and I found myself grinning at strangers like we were all in on some wonderful secret. The path wound through scrubby maquis, the air thick with the smell of pine and salt, and I reached a small cove just as the light turned golden. I swam, I dried on warm rocks, I walked back in the fading light feeling terribly pleased with myself.

Then the weather turned. Not dramatically, not all at once, but in that sneaky Mediterranean way where the wind shifts and suddenly you are being rained on by clouds that were not there five minutes ago. I woke to grey skies and a forecast that might as well have been written in Glasgow. My planned hike to Mount Hum, the island's highest point, suddenly seemed less appealing. I stood at the kitchen window of Vis Grad Vis, drinking coffee and watching the rain streak down, experiencing that peculiar British emotion of feeling both disappointed and slightly vindicated.

I adapted, as we do. The coastal path to Milna became a windswept adventure rather than a sun-drenched stroll. I wore my waterproof and embraced the drama of waves crashing against the rocks, the sky shifting from slate to silver and back again. The vineyards I passed looked almost Scottish in the low cloud, though the vines themselves were a giveaway. I walked further than I had intended, simply because turning back felt like admitting defeat, and arrived at Milna soaked through and grinning like an idiot. The beach was empty, the water too rough for swimming, and I sat on a wall eating a sandwich that had gone slightly soggy, feeling genuinely happy.

The weather cleared by late afternoon, as it often does, and I walked back in sunshine that made everything steam slightly. That became the pattern of my stay. Morning hikes under uncertain skies, afternoons of sudden brilliance, evenings watching the light change over the bay from the terrace. I walked to Stoncica beach one day, timing my arrival with a break in the clouds that lasted exactly forty minutes, long enough for a swim and a walk along the sand before the wind returned. I explored the military tunnels near Vis town, grateful for their shelter when another squall blew through. I began to enjoy the unpredictability, the way each walk became a small negotiation with the elements.

My boots never quite dried out. I stopped caring. There is something liberating about accepting that your plans are provisional, that the weather will do what it wants and your job is simply to be prepared and good-humoured about it. By my final day, I had walked almost every path within five miles of the property, some of them twice in different conditions. I knew where to shelter when the rain came, which coves were worth the detour, and exactly how long it took to walk back to Vis Grad Vis for a hot shower and a glass of the local wine.

I left with my walking boots in a plastic bag, my skin weather-beaten in that satisfying way, and a collection of photographs that were half-sunshine and half-dramatic cloud. The ferry back to Split departed on time, from the correct pier, and I watched Vis disappear with the strange melancholy of someone who has found a place that suits them better than expected. I had arrived in chaos and left in something approaching peace, having walked my way through sunshine and rain and discovered that both have their place in a proper holiday.