I have never been so grateful for a sat nav in my life, and I have never wanted to throw one out of a moving car quite so much either. The journey to Pag Vidasovi Stani had been going swimmingly until we left the main coastal road, at which point our cheerful electronic companion decided that what our hire car really needed was an impromptu off-road adventure through someone's olive grove. It was late April, the kind of time when the Kvarner Bay weather cannot quite decide whether it wants to be spring or summer, and there we were, bumping along a track barely wide enough for a donkey, while I tried to convince my partner that yes, this was definitely the right way, and no, those angry barking dogs were probably just being friendly.

The olive trees were just beginning to show that silvery-green shimmer they get when the seasons turn, and the air smelled of wild herbs and recent rain. That was the thing about arriving in late spring rather than high summer - everything felt tentative, freshly woken, a bit unsure of itself. The tourist crowds had not arrived yet. The island of Pag itself had that lovely, slightly sleepy quality of a place still stretching after winter.

We finally found the proper turning, marked by a weathered stone that looked like it had been there since before sat navs were even a twinkle in some engineer's eye. The track improved immediately, winding through low scrub and the occasional gnarled fig tree not yet in leaf. Then Pag Vidasovi Stani appeared around a bend, and I actually said "oh" out loud, which is not something I normally do.

It is a traditional stone house, the sort that looks like it grew out of the landscape rather than being built onto it. In summer, I imagine, it would bake gently in the heat, the thick walls doing their ancient job of keeping the interior cool. But in April, with the temperature hovering around eighteen degrees and a brisk breeze coming off the bay, those same walls seemed to hold the warmth of the day like a memory. The owners had left the shutters open, and late afternoon light fell in thick golden bars across the terracotta floors.

My first job, naturally, was to investigate the outdoor space. The stone terrace was still damp from a morning shower, and someone had left a collection of terracotta pots in various states of emptiness - last year's soil dried hard, waiting for the planting that would surely come in May. I could imagine them overflowing with basil and tomatoes by July, but now they had that slightly forlorn, expectant look of gardening season not quite begun. A wooden pergola overhead was bare except for the first tentative tendrils of some climbing plant I could not identify. By August, I supposed, it would be a green tunnel of shade. Now it was just a promise, a sketch of summer.

The swimming pool was covered, which felt both disappointing and completely right. Peeking under the edge of the tarpaulin, the water looked glassy and cold and deeply uninviting. I dipped a hand in and yelped. My partner laughed from the doorway, wrapped in a cardigan that would have seemed absurd in peak season but was entirely sensible now. We made tea instead, using the proper kettle rather than anything fancy, and stood on the terrace watching the light change over the bay.

That evening, we walked down to the nearest village, maybe twenty minutes along a stony path. The seasonal restaurants were still shuttered, their terraces empty, chairs stacked with a certain patient resignation. We found one place open, clearly serving mostly locals, and ate grilled fish that tasted of the sea and wood smoke. The owner explained, with gestures more than words, that the tourist season proper would not start for another fortnight. Everything was being prepared, readied, made beautiful. We were early, unexpected, a preview audience.

Walking back in the dusk, with the first stars coming out and the temperature dropping fast enough to make us walk quicker, I felt something I had not expected. There was a particular pleasure in being here before the main event, in seeing the place undressed, in preparation, honest about what it was rather than what it presented to summer visitors. The mishap with the sat nav, the covered pool, the bare pergola, the shuttered restaurants - none of it was the glossy holiday brochure version. It was better than that, somehow. More real, more ours.

I think that is what I will remember most about that first evening at Pag Vidasovi Stani. Not the perfection of high summer, but the lovely, imperfect in-between of late spring, when everything is becoming and nothing is quite finished yet.