I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a small disaster, and our trip to Vodice Tribunj did not disappoint. We had been driving down from Zadar Airport, which sounds simple enough except that I had insisted on taking the scenic route. My partner sat in the passenger seat clutching the hire car door handle while I navigated winding coastal roads, feeling rather pleased with myself until I realised I had missed the turning for Tribunj not once but twice. The second time involved a dramatic U-turn outside a konoba where three elderly men watched with the kind of silent judgment that only Dalmatian locals can truly perfect.

The real trouble began when we finally located the property. I had memorised the door code incorrectly, swapping two digits in that confident way that makes the eventual discovery so much more humiliating. There we stood at nine in the evening, me frantically pressing buttons while my partner reminded me that she had offered to write the code down. The outdoor light flicked on, presumably triggered by my increasingly desperate movements, and I caught sight of a gecko watching from the wall with what I can only describe as reptilian amusement. I was about to admit defeat and call the property manager when my partner tried her birthday, which worked. We had never used her birthday. I still do not know how this happened, and I have decided not to ask.

Stepping inside changed everything. The place smelled of pine and recent cleaning, that particular Mediterranean freshness that no air freshener has ever successfully replicated. The living area opened onto a terrace through sliding doors, and despite my earlier incompetence, I found myself standing there with a beer from the surprisingly well-stocked fridge, looking at the dark outline of the Adriatic. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and another answered, which is the evening soundtrack of every Dalmatian village I have ever visited.

The kitchen, I noticed, had actual sharp knives, which is rarer in holiday lets than you might expect. I made a mental note to cook something ambitious and knew immediately that I would settle for pasta after one attempt at the local market. The bedrooms were simple and white, the kind of uncluttered space that makes you aware of how much unnecessary stuff you live with at home. I unpacked with unusual tidiness, still recovering from the door code incident and wanting to appear reformed.

Morning brought the full view. Tribunj sits on a small peninsula connected to the mainland by a bridge, and from our terrace I could see the old town jutting into the water, the church tower rising above terracotta roofs, fishing boats already returning with their catch. The water was that particular Adriatic blue that photographs never quite capture, though this has never stopped me from trying. I took seventeen photos before breakfast, then deleted fifteen of them while eating a peach that was possibly the best fruit I have ever encountered.

We walked to the nearest beach that first morning, a small pebble cove where an elderly woman was already swimming with the steady determination of someone who has done this every day for decades. The water was cold enough to make me gasp, which delighted my partner, who had warned me about this and been ignored. I floated on my back looking at the clear sky and thought about how I had nearly ruined our arrival with my stubbornness about the scenic route and my refusal to double-check a four-digit number.

That is the thing about first impressions, I suppose. They contain everything that follows, if you bother to look. The chaos and the beauty, the gecko and the peach, the embarrassment and the floating. I would get the code wrong again tomorrow if it meant arriving at the same place, though I suspect my partner would not find this nearly as charming as I do.