I should have known the holiday was going to be eventful when I tried to unlock the wrong villa with someone else's key code. There I was, standing in the dark in a quiet corner of Pula, jabbing numbers into a keypad while a very confused Croatian cat watched me from the windowsill. Not my finest moment, and certainly not the relaxed Mediterranean arrival I'd pictured.

The journey from the airport had already tested my patience. I'd hired a car that was roughly the size of a postage stamp, then spent forty minutes circling Pula's one-way system while my phone insisted I was "arriving at destination" in the middle of a roundabout. The sat-nav voice had developed what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown, repeating "turn around" with increasing desperation until I switched it off entirely. Old school paper map, I thought. Except I'd left that on the kitchen table in Manchester.

By the time I found the right road, the sun had properly set and I was running on airport coffee and stubbornness. The villa complex sat among pine trees, all low stone walls and terracotta roofs, utterly peaceful except for my frantic wheezing as I hauled suitcases up a gravel path. That's when the keypad incident happened. Three doors down, a light flicked on, and I realised my error with the hot shame of a grown adult who cannot read house numbers. I muttered apologies to the cat and shuffled away with what dignity remained.

The actual villa, when I finally reached it, felt like a reward for my suffering. The key code worked first time, which I took as a personal victory, and stepping inside was like walking into someone else's better life. Exposed wooden beams, a kitchen that actually looked used rather than purely decorative, and sliding doors that opened onto a terrace where the pool caught the last bit of moonlight. I stood there with my suitcase still in hand, suddenly aware that I'd been holding my breath for approximately six hours.

I made the obvious choice and went straight to the pool, still in my travelling clothes, lowering myself into water that was warmer than expected. The pine smell from the trees mixed with something flowering nearby, and for the first time that day my shoulders dropped away from my ears. I'd done it. I'd arrived. Messily, embarrassingly, but undeniably here.

The morning proved even better. I woke to proper sunshine streaming through shutters I'd forgotten to close, made coffee in that functional kitchen, and took it outside to discover the terrace properly. The pool glittered like a promise, and beyond the garden wall I could see glimpses of Istrian countryside rolling towards the coast. Somewhere in the distance, probably at the actual beach I kept reading about, other holidaymakers were already claiming their spots. I had no intention of moving quickly.

My first full day became a masterclass in doing very little very slowly. A wander to the nearest shop for bread and cheese, eaten back at the villa with tomatoes that actually tasted of something. A swim when the sun grew fierce. An attempt at reading a novel that I'd been carrying since January, abandoned after three pages because the pool was more interesting. The villa had that rare quality of feeling immediately comfortable, like borrowing a friend's house rather than staying in a rental.

By evening, I'd established my terrace position and was watching the sky shift through colours I don't have names for. The cat from the wrong villa appeared at the garden wall, stared at me with obvious judgement, and disappeared again. Fair enough, I thought. We'd both seen me at my worst.

I raised my glass to no one in particular, to chaotic arrivals and the strange relief of being slightly lost before finding your way. The holiday could officially begin.