I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise no one that I managed to get us lost before we even reached the ferry to Pag. My partner sat in the passenger seat, map open, while I confidently ignored every signpost pointing towards the port. Twenty minutes of winding coastal road later, we found ourselves in somebody's olive grove, surrounded by curious goats and one very unimpressed farmer. I wound down the window, offered my best apologetic smile, and received a shrug that said, louder than words, "another tourist." We reversed with what dignity remained and eventually joined the queue for the ferry, me vowing never to live down the Great Goat Incident.

The crossing itself settled my nerves. Kvarner Bay stretched around us, islands scattered like someone had tossed pebbles across blue silk. Pag emerged gradually, all pale stone and sparse vegetation, utterly unlike the green hills we'd left behind. I had expected something dramatic, but the island's starkness caught me off guard. It looked like a place that did not suffer fools, which given my navigation record, slightly concerned me.

Our Pag Lun sat on the island's southern end, a traditional stone house with shutters the colour of faded terracotta. The key was exactly where the owner said it would be, tucked in a rusted metal box behind a potted lavender that had seen better days. I fumbled with the latch, dropped the key twice, and finally shouldered the door open with rather more force than necessary. It swung inward to reveal cool darkness and the faint smell of stone that has known centuries of summers.

The kitchen won me immediately. Not modern, not glossy, but properly equipped with heavy pans, a wooden chopping board scarred from honest use, and a view through small windows towards olive terraces stepping down to the sea. I opened the ancient fridge, half-expecting emptiness, and found instead a welcome bottle of local Zlahtina and a note suggesting we try the market in Lun village for morning fish. I have always believed that holiday accommodation reveals its character through such details. This place understood priorities.

We unpacked with the lazy purposelessness of people who have nowhere urgent to be. I claimed the bedroom with the crooked wardrobe door, my partner took the one with the better light for reading. The bathroom featured a shower with approximately three minutes of hot water, which we discovered through a rather abrupt temperature change mid-lather. I stood there, suds freezing, laughing at the absurdity while my partner shouted helpful suggestions through the door.

Evening found us on the stone terrace, wine poured, watching fishing boats trace lines across water turning rose and gold. The silence struck me most. Not empty silence, but full of small sounds. Insects in the dry grass, distant goat bells, water lapping somewhere below. I had brought a book, remained unread. Some evenings do not require distraction.

We had planned to cook that first night, full of ambition about local markets and authentic preparations. The reality was cheese, bread, and tomatoes from a roadside stall we passed in our post-goat confusion. Simple food, eaten with fingers, tasting of sun and soil. I kept thinking I should do something more elaborate, then kept not doing it. The wine helped with this decision.

Sleep came heavy and dreamless, the kind that only happens when sea air has filled your lungs and anxiety has finally loosened its grip. I woke to early light filtering through shutters, momentarily confused about place, then remembering with a pleasure that felt almost guilty. Somewhere nearby, a rooster announced opinions. I lay there, listening, already thinking about breakfast possibilities and whether the market would have fresh prsut.

The Great Goat Incident became our holiday's founding myth, retold with embellishment over subsequent meals. I never did become competent at island navigation. But I learned that getting slightly lost often leads to better tomatoes, and that some places reward the unprepared with unexpected grace.