I'd never been to Kvarner Bay before, and my first introduction to it involved me standing in a car park in Rab Town, frantically patting every pocket I owned while my partner watched with that particular expression that says "I love you but also how are you this person."

The keys. I'd put the keys somewhere sensible. You know how that goes.

We'd driven down from Rijeka airport, which sounds straightforward until you discover Croatian coastal roads have roughly the same width as a generous bike lane, and my hire car had the turning circle of a small ferry. The views were spectacular, mind you - that proper Mediterranean blue that makes you want to pull over and just stare - but I was too busy white-knuckling past olive groves and trying not to clip stone walls that have probably been there since before my entire family tree existed.

The property, when we finally found it, sat up a quiet lane just outside the old town walls. A proper stone house with shutters, the sort that makes you feel smug about your holiday choices before you've even stepped inside. But first, the key situation. I'd checked my jacket, my jeans, my bag, the glovebox, under the seats, and was starting to contemplate whether I'd somehow posted them to myself when my partner calmly reached into the cup holder where they'd been sitting the entire two-hour journey. Right. There we are then.

The owner had left the place unlocked anyway, which I discovered by nearly taking the door off its hinges trying to force it with my now-recovered key. Subtlety has never been my strong suit.

Stepping inside was like walking into someone's grandmother's house, in the best possible way. Stone floors that stayed deliciously cool, wooden beams that looked like they'd tell you stories if you listened hard enough, and a kitchen that immediately made me want to attempt something ambitious with local fish despite having the culinary skills of a distracted student. The terrace, though - that was the moment. A proper outdoor space with a view down towards the bay, shaded by vines that someone had clearly spent years training into submission. I stood there with my bag still on my shoulder, holding a warm bottle of Karlovacko I'd grabbed from a shop in town, and felt that particular holiday feeling where your shoulders actually drop.

My partner had already investigated the bedroom and reported back that the bed was "adequate," which is her highest praise for any sleeping arrangement. I was still on the terrace, mentally planning my week of doing very little indeed. There would be swimming, obviously - the nearest beach was a ten-minute stroll down through the old town, a proper pebble cove with that astonishingly clear water the Adriatic does so well. There would be attempting to cook with ingredients from the morning market. There would be sitting in this exact spot with a book I'd definitely finish this time.

The neighbour's cat wandered in to inspect us, clearly unimpressed by our arrival chaos. I offered it a bit of cheese from our emergency snacks, which it accepted with the air of someone doing us a favour. Fair enough.

By evening, we'd managed to locate the proper wine glasses, work out which light switches did what, and establish that the shower had approximately two temperatures: "refreshing" and "questioning your life choices." I stood on that terrace as the sun went down, watching the old town turn golden, and thought about how I'd nearly let a set of keys ruin this moment. Some lessons you apparently keep learning. The cheese-seeking cat had settled on the wall, keeping watch. I raised my glass to it, to the bay, to the chaos of getting here, and to the particular joy of a week where absolutely nothing was required of me except showing up.