I have never been brilliant at reading ferry timetables, and my arrival in Kvarner Bay proved this beyond all doubt. There I was, sat in Rijeka airport at half past six in the morning, clutching a hire car key and a printed map, absolutely convinced the coastal road to Crikvenica would take twenty minutes. It took fifty. I missed the turning twice, once because a goat was having an argument with a parked scooter and I got distracted, and once because I was too busy singing along to Croatian radio to notice my sat nav had given up entirely.

By the time I pulled up at the stone villa, the April sun had properly got going and I was already in a T-shirt, sweating slightly and wondering why I had packed three jumpers. The owner, a chap called Davor with hands that looked like they could mend anything, just laughed and said, "You English, always ready for winter." He was not wrong. I had thermals in my bag and it was twenty-two degrees.

The seasonal timing shaped everything about that first day. April in Kvarner Bay sits in this glorious in-between space, before the summer crowds arrive but after the last of the winter winds have blown through. The garden was full of wildflowers I could not name, and the swimming pool, though technically open, had that slightly accusatory look of water that knows it is still a bit chilly. Davor saw me eyeing it and said nobody had been in yet this year. I took this as a challenge, naturally. I lasted about forty seconds. It was not dignified. I emerged making a noise like a deflating lilo and Davor, who had apparently been watching from the terrace, brought me a towel and what he called "recovery rakija." It did help, or at least I stopped shivering enough to pretend it had.

The villa itself felt perfectly suited to that springtime arrival. Big glass doors in the living room let in enormous rectangles of light, and I spent a good hour just moving around with my coffee, watching how the sun shifted across the tiled floors. In high summer I imagine you would want those shutters closed against the heat, but in April it was all about letting the warmth in, opening everything up, feeling like you were stealing a march on the actual summer people. The kitchen had a proper old range that Davor said came in handy on the odd cold evening, though I never needed it. I kept opening the fridge just to stand in the cool air like a character in a cartoon.

That first afternoon I walked down to the seafront, maybe ten minutes through streets still quiet from winter. A few local lads were working on boats, prepping them for the season ahead. One shouted something I did not catch and the others laughed, not unkindly. I waved like an idiot and kept walking. The promenade had that lovely freshly-swept feeling, cafes putting out chairs but not yet bothering with umbrellas. I found a spot for a beer and sat there watching the water, thinking about how different this must look in August, packed with families and ice cream queues and the smell of suntan lotion everywhere. This was better, I decided, though I knew I was partly justifying my own poor holiday planning. Still, there was something special about being there early, before the place had fully woken up.

The evening brought a reminder that April is not summer proper. The temperature dropped sharply once the sun went behind the hills, and I found myself grateful for those jumpers after all. I built a fire in the outdoor grill, slightly overdoing the charcoal in my enthusiasm, and ate grilled fish with my fingers while wearing two layers and a blanket. The stars were ridiculous. You forget, living in towns, how many there are. I sat there until my wine was finished and my nose was cold, feeling smug about my timing in a way I probably did not deserve.

Looking back, that seasonal sweet spot made the whole trip. I paid off-season prices, had the seafront largely to myself, and experienced Crikvenica as it actually is rather than as a summer performance of itself. The goat and the scooter, the brisk swimming pool, the fire that took three attempts to light properly, they all belonged to that particular April moment. I would do it again exactly the same way, though perhaps with slightly fewer thermals and a bit more rakija in my suitcase.