I have never been more grateful for a sat nav than I was driving down to Kvarner Bay last spring, though I will admit it tried to murder me twice before we even reached the ferry. The first time it sent me down what I can only describe as a goat track masquerading as a road, complete with an actual goat who looked at me with the kind of judgment I usually reserve for my mother. The second time it announced we had arrived at our destination while we were still very much in the middle of the Adriatic, bobbing about on the Jadrolinija ferry like a confused cork.

The mishap that truly defines this trip, though, happened the moment I stepped off that ferry onto Rab island. In my enthusiasm to breathe proper sea air after six hours of motorway and one questionable service station burek, I managed to stride directly into a coil of mooring rope that some helpful soul had left precisely at ankle height. I went down like a sack of potatoes, my wheeled suitcase shot off toward a group of elderly German tourists, and my sunglasses launched themselves into the harbour with what I can only describe as suicidal intent. A very kind fisherman retrieved them with his net, though they now have a permanent tilt that makes me look permanently sceptical of everything.

Spring in Kvarner Bay is not the Croatia you see on Instagram. The beaches are empty, the water has that particular shade of turquoise that looks almost aggressive in its clarity, and the air carries this extraordinary mixture of wild rosemary, pine resin, and the faint promise of summer that has not quite committed to arriving. I drove the winding road from Rab town to Mundanije with my windows down, shivering slightly because Mediterranean spring is a liar and a tease, and arrived at the stone house with my hair doing something I cannot adequately describe.

The property sits among olive groves that were just beginning to show that silvery-green shimmer they get when the new growth comes through. My host had left the key in the traditional way, under a flower pot that contained one very alive spider and one very dead something I chose not to investigate. The first thing that struck me was the smell of the place, that particular combination of stone cooling after winter and wood smoke from the neighbour's chimney. Spring here means evenings that retreat quickly into chill, the sun dropping behind the Velebit mountains with what feels like haste, as if it has somewhere more important to be.

I made the rookie error of assuming I could sit outside with my wine. The terrace, with its view down toward the bay, was magnificent for approximately seventeen minutes. Then the temperature dropped, some creature in the olive grove made a noise I can only describe as accusatory, and I retreated inside to discover that Croatian country houses in spring are built for endurance rather than immediate comfort. The heating required a degree of engineering knowledge I do not possess. I spent my first evening wearing every item of clothing I had brought, huddled under a wool blanket that smelled faintly of sheep and adventure, drinking red wine and watching the lights of Rab town flicker on across the water.

There is something about arriving somewhere in the shoulder season that strips away any pretence. The restaurants in Mundanije itself were still mostly shuttered, waking from winter like bears from hibernation. I walked to the nearest konoba the following morning and found the owner painting his terrace furniture, looking mildly surprised to see a customer. He fed me prsut and cheese that tasted of the wind that blows across this island, and told me in broken English that I was either very early or very late, depending on my perspective.

I think I was exactly on time, though it took me the full week to understand that. Spring in Kvarner Bay does not perform for you. It offers you the place as it actually is, without the summer crowds, without the forced cheerfulness of peak season. The olive groves were being pruned, the wild asparagus was being foraged, and I was simply there, slightly bruised from my ferry arrival, slightly drunk on local wine, and entirely present in a way I rarely manage at home. The sat nav eventually found the house properly. I never quite found my dignity. But I did find something better, there among the spring winds and the waiting olives: the peculiar, quiet gift of arriving somewhere before it has dressed itself up for company.