I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once got lost in their own local Tesco car park. The journey from Zadar Airport to Maslenica had started promisingly enough: blue skies, the windows down, and me feeling terribly continental with a hire car that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and regret. But somewhere between the A1 motorway and the turn-off for the coastal road, I missed a sign. Not just any sign. The sign. The one that apparently mattered enormously.

What followed was twenty minutes of increasingly narrow Croatian lanes, the kind where you start wondering if you have accidentally driven into someone's actual garden. I passed three olive groves, a very judgmental goat, and what I am fairly certain was someone's washing line strung across the road. By the time I found the proper turning, I had developed a nervous twitch every time the sat nav made its little recalculating noise. The thing about Dalmatia in late spring, though, is that even your spectacular navigational failures happen in absurdly beautiful surroundings. The Velebit mountains were doing their dramatic backdrop thing, the Adriatic was glinting through the pines, and the air smelled of wild herbs and salt. It is terribly difficult to maintain proper self-pity in those conditions.

The property sat on a gentle slope above Maslenica, and my first impression was of terraces. So many terraces. The kind of stepped outdoor spaces that make you immediately picture yourself drinking wine at sunset while pretending to be far more sophisticated than you actually are. The stone walls were warm from the afternoon sun, and bougainvillea was already doing its flamboyant best to climb everything in sight. This was May, that lovely shoulder season when Dalmatia has not yet committed fully to the baking heat of summer but has definitely shaken off winter's grumpiness.

I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of someone who has spent far too long in a car seat and immediately headed for the outdoor area. The covered terrace was the real revelation. In high summer, I imagine you would use it as essential shelter from the midday sun, but in late spring it served as the perfect observation deck. I could see down to the Maslenica Strait, where the current does its dramatic rushing thing between the mainland and the Novigrad Sea. Boats were moving through, and I found myself unexpectedly captivated by the simple rhythm of it all. There is something about arriving somewhere in the off-season that makes you notice these details. In August, I suspect I would have been too busy fighting for towel space or queueing for ice cream to sit still long enough to watch a fishing boat make its steady progress.

The garden was in that delicious state of early-season abundance. Lemon trees were heavy with fruit that had apparently survived winter, herbs were growing in enthusiastic clumps, and someone had planted lavender in organised rows that would presumably be spectacular come July. I made a mental note to actually use the outdoor barbecue, something I always promise myself and rarely manage. The swimming pool was covered, which gave me a moment's disappointment until I dipped my hand in and discovered it was actually rather pleasant. The owners had clearly been heating it, or perhaps May in this part of Dalmatia is simply warmer than my British expectations had prepared me for. Either way, I found myself swimming that evening as the light faded, which felt faintly ridiculous and completely wonderful.

The village itself was quiet in that specifically Mediterranean off-season way. A few locals were out, everyone seemed to know everyone, and the small shop was doing steady business in bread, cheese, and local wine. I bought all three with the desperate enthusiasm of someone who has not yet worked out where the nearest proper supermarket is, then sat on my terrace and ate dinner while watching the sky turn that particular orange-pink that seems to happen more reliably here than anywhere else I have been.

What struck me most, I think, was how the time of year had shaped everything about that first day. The light was softer than summer's harsh brilliance, the temperature demanded activity rather than the enforced lethargy of August, and there was space to actually notice where I was. I had arrived flustered and slightly ridiculous, having argued with a goat and lost, but within hours the particular magic of spring Dalmatia had done its work. The mishap became a story rather than a disaster. The quiet became a gift rather than a compromise. And I sat there with my slightly too warm white wine, watching the last light fade over the strait, already wondering how early I could reasonably justify breakfast on that terrace and whether the swimming pool would still feel brave in the morning chill.

It would, as it turned out. But that is another story entirely.