I have never been so grateful for a satnav in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once got lost in their own local Tesco car park. The drive from Pula Airport to Medulin had been going swimmingly until I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I knew a shortcut. Twenty minutes later I found myself down a narrow Istrian lane flanked by olive groves, staring at a very unimpressed goat who had clearly seen this exact scenario play out with countless other British holidaymakers. The goat won the staring contest. I reversed with what dignity I could muster and let the robot voice guide me the rest of the way.

It was late October when I arrived, and that timing coloured everything about the trip. The summer crowds had well and truly vanished, leaving Medulin with the relaxed air of a seaside town that had finally got its living room back after hosting a month-long party. The temperature sat in that perfect Goldilocks zone, warm enough for a t-shirt during the day but with enough evening bite to justify a proper jumper and a glass of something red. I cannot overstate how much I enjoyed not having to fight for a sun lounger or queue for an ice cream. The seasonal shift meant the place felt genuinely lived-in rather than performed for tourists.

Pulling up to the property, I was struck by how the autumn light hit the stone differently than it would in July. The harsh midday glare had softened into something golden and forgiving, making the whole place look like it had been filtered through an Instagram preset that actually existed in real life. The garden was still productive in that unhurried Mediterranean way, citrus trees heavy with fruit and herbs that had gone slightly wild after their summer peak. I spent a good ten minutes just standing there with my suitcase, breathing in something that was definitely rosemary and possibly sage, feeling smug about my off-peak timing in a way that I now recognise was deeply insufferable.

The first evening revealed another seasonal gift: the sunset schedule aligned perfectly with human mealtimes rather than requiring you to either rush dinner or stay up impossibly late. I walked down to the coast as the light was doing its dramatic farewell, the water still warm enough from the summer months that a few hardy locals were having their final swims of the year. The beach had that particular end-of-season melancholy beauty, with a scattering of dried leaves among the pebbles and the last of the seasonal bars packing up their outdoor furniture. A man was folding sun umbrellas with the resigned efficiency of someone who knew exactly how many months until he would unfold them again.

What struck me most, and what I keep coming back to, was how the rhythm of the place matched my own in a way that peak summer never could. I woke naturally with the light rather than being blasted awake by heat. I ate when hungry rather than when restaurant availability dictated. The local shopkeeper had time to explain which olive oil was actually worth buying rather than processing tourists through a conveyor belt of truffle-flavoured souvenirs. There was a particular afternoon, three days in, when I found myself alone on a coastal path with nothing but the sound of waves and distant church bells, and I had one of those moments of clarity that only seem to arrive when you have finally stopped trying to make them happen.

The mishap with the goat feels like the perfect metaphor for the whole trip. I had arrived full of plans and assumptions about how things should go, and the season gently but firmly corrected me. Late October in Medulin does not perform on demand. It reveals itself slowly to those with the patience to match its pace, and I am still not entirely sure whether I discovered that patience or simply had it imposed upon me by circumstance. Either way, I am not complaining.