I should have known the Cretan spring was going to have its way with me the moment I stepped off the plane in Chania. There I was, smug as anything in my linen trousers and brand new white trainers, convinced I had cracked the packing code for a May holiday. The woman at the car hire desk took one look at me, glanced at the dark clouds gathering over the White Mountains, and said simply, "You have a jacket?" I laughed. I actually laughed. By the time I reached Rethymno forty minutes later, those trainers were soaked through from a sudden downpour that came out of nowhere, and I was shivering in the sort of drizzle that somehow finds its way down your collar no matter what you do.

The villa sat on a hillside just outside the old town, and I will never forget the sight of it through rain-streaked windows. Stone walls the colour of honey, bougainvillea clinging on for dear life against the wind, and a pool that looked absolutely freezing. My first thought was not poetic. My first thought was that I had made a terrible mistake booking a place with such an inviting outdoor kitchen when the weather clearly had other plans.

But here is the thing about Crete in May. The seasons turn on a sixpence. I dumped my bags, made the rookie error of putting the heating on full blast, and within an hour the clouds had torn themselves apart like an old tablecloth. Sunlight came flooding across the terrace with almost aggressive enthusiasm. I stood there in my damp clothes, now steaming slightly, watching steam actually rise from the wet stones. The pool went from looking like a punishment to looking like the best idea anyone had ever had. I did not get in, mind you. I am not completely foolish. The water was still what estate agents generously call "refreshing." But I sat beside it, feeling the warmth build, and understood why Cretans do not bother with weather forecasts. They would drive you mad.

That first evening, the seasonal shift shaped everything. At six o'clock I needed a cardigan. By eight, sitting on the terrace with a glass of local wine, I was down to a t-shirt and still too warm. The swallows were going absolutely bonkers overhead, making the most of the insect hatch that comes with those brief spring rains. Somewhere down the hill, a dog barked at the changeable weather with the resigned air of someone who has seen this performance a thousand times before.

I cooked outside that night because the villa begged for it, and because the evening had turned so mild it felt criminal to stay indoors. The built-in barbecue was still slightly damp from the afternoon, which meant my first attempt at lighting it involved more smoke than flame and a small panic about whether Cretan fire services were on speed dial. A neighbour shouted something across the olive groves that sounded encouraging, or possibly mocking. With the locals you can never quite tell.

Lying in bed later, windows open to let in air that smelled of wet earth and wild herbs, I thought about how narrowly I had missed the point. I had packed for a single season, as if Crete in spring could be reduced to one thing. The place was teaching me already that you do not visit in May for predictable weather. You visit for the drama of it, for the way the island keeps you guessing, for those moments when the sun breaks through and feels earned rather than expected. My white trainers never recovered, incidentally. They sit in my cupboard still, slightly stained with Cretan mud, a permanent reminder that the best arrivals are the ones that do not go to plan.