I have never been so relieved to see a set of keys in a lockbox in my entire life. Three flights, one extremely questionable airport sandwich, and a hire car that smelled faintly of fish and air freshener had brought me to a small residential street on the outskirts of Zadar, and I was absolutely convinced I had ruined everything before the holiday had even begun.

The mishap, because there is always one with me, happened at Split Airport. In my excitement to finally be on Croatian soil, I marched straight past the car hire desk without collecting the printed directions to the property. No matter, I thought, tapping my phone with the confidence of a fool. I have Google Maps. I have initiative. I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. Two hours later I found myself in what I can only describe as a very scenic car park near a vineyard, watching a goat watch me, neither of us with any useful suggestions about where I had gone wrong.

By the time I actually located the holiday home, the sun was doing that spectacular Dalmatian thing where it turns everything golden and slightly unreal. The fish-and-lavender scented car crunched up a gravel drive, and I sat there for a moment, half-laughing at my own ridiculousness, half-wondering if I could simply live in the vehicle and pretend this was the plan all along.

But then I actually got out and looked around.

The house was one of those understated stone numbers that Croatia does so well, not flashy but somehow exactly right. A terrace wrapped around the front, and I could see straight through to glimpses of blue that had to be the sea. The air smelled of pine and something herbal that I later learned was rosemary growing wild along the boundary wall. After my goat-interrupted odyssey, it felt almost embarrassingly peaceful.

The lockbox surrendered the keys on my third attempt, and I stepped inside with that particular held breath you get when you are not quite sure if the reality will match the photographs. It did, and then some. The kitchen was modern without being sterile, the sort of space that immediately makes you want to pop to the shops and pretend you are the sort of person who cooks proper meals on holiday rather than surviving on bread and cheese. The living area opened onto that terrace through glass doors, and I stood there like a lemon with my still-packed bag, just watching the light change.

I had planned to unpack methodically, to settle in like a sensible adult. Instead I found a bottle of local wine left as a welcome gift, poured an entirely too-large glass, and carried it outside in my socks. The terrace furniture was that solid, slightly weathered wood that tells you it has seen many evenings exactly like this one. I sat. I breathed. I listened to the particular silence of a place that is not quite countryside, not quite town, but some perfect in-between.

A gecko appeared on the wall, observed me with what I chose to interpret as sympathy, and darted away.

The mishaps of the journey suddenly felt less like disasters and more like the necessary chaos that makes arrival feel earned. I thought about the goat, about my stubborn refusal to ask for directions, about the way stress can make you miss what is right in front of you. There on that terrace, wine in hand, socks slightly damp from the evening dew, I felt the particular shift that happens when a holiday actually begins.

Tomorrow I would find the nearest konoba, eat something grilled with olive oil, swim in that blue water I could just glimpse. Tonight I simply sat, let the warmth of the stone seep into my shoulders, and smiled at my own ridiculous journey.

Some arrivals are smooth. Mine rarely are. But sitting there, watching the last light fade over Zadar, I would not have changed a single wrong turn.