I should have known the holiday was going to be interesting when I missed the ferry by approximately ninety seconds. There I was, standing at the terminal in Valbiska, watching the stern of the boat disappear towards Losinj while clutching a carrier bag full of slightly melted chocolate hobnobs. The next crossing was two hours later. I ate rather a lot of hobnobs and contemplated my life choices.

The drive down from Rijeka airport had already been eventful enough. I had convinced myself that Croatian roads would be forgiving to someone who had not driven abroad since a disastrous trip to Normandy in 2019. The reality involved several tense moments with lorries on narrow coastal stretches and one accidental detour through a village where I am fairly certain I interrupted a wedding procession. I waved apologetically. They waved back, though perhaps not in the same spirit.

By the time I actually reached the Losinj Sveti Jakov property, I was in that peculiar state of frazzled exhaustion where everything feels slightly unreal. The key collection went smoothly enough, which immediately made me suspicious. Something had to go wrong. I dumped my bags, ignored the sensible unpacking, and decided to explore the immediate area before the light faded.

This is where I should mention that I have no sense of direction whatsoever. None. My phone battery was also gasping its last after the navigation marathon from the airport. I set off along what I assumed was a path towards the sea, turned left at a promising-looking olive grove, and within ten minutes had absolutely no idea where I was.

The thing about getting properly lost, though, is that you start noticing things you would otherwise stride past with purpose. I found myself in a small clearing where someone had arranged stones into what looked like a miniature amphitheatre, perhaps for cats or very small theatre troupes. There was a fig tree heavy with fruit that nobody seemed to be harvesting. I ate one. It was warm from the sun and absurdly sweet. I felt like a minor character in a folk tale, trespassing but somehow permitted.

Wandering further, I stumbled upon a tiny cove that does not appear on any map I have since consulted. The water was that particular Adriatic blue that makes you understand why people paint. A fisherman was mending nets nearby. We communicated in a mixture of broken Italian, enthusiastic pointing, and shared figs. He told me, unless I completely misunderstood, that his grandfather had built a stone bench in the area during the 1950s. I found it half an hour later, covered in lichen, facing the water. I sat there until the mosquitoes found me.

The return journey involved following the smell of someone grilling fish, which led me to a residential lane, which led me to a road I vaguely recognised. I arrived back at the property in near darkness, scratched by brambles, carrying a pocket full of wild rosemary I had harvested without thinking, and feeling utterly delighted with myself.

That evening I sat on the terrace with a glass of local white wine, watching the lights across the water. The planned itinerary, the sensible activities, the organised excursions I had researched so diligently suddenly seemed rather beside the point. I had done nothing of consequence by any measurable standard. Yet I felt more genuinely on holiday than I had in years.

The next morning I set out deliberately to get lost again. Some habits, once discovered, are worth keeping.