I have never been brilliant with ferries, and the one from Samos Town to Kokkari proved no exception. There I was, clutching my rucksack and feeling terribly continental, when a sudden lurch sent my carefully packed bottle of local wine rolling across the deck like it was making a break for freedom. A kindly Greek gentleman stopped it with his foot, handed it back with a wink, and said something I chose to interpret as "happens to everyone." I suspect he was being polite. Still, I arrived in Kokkari slightly flushed, mildly seasick, and already rather fond of the place.

It was late May when I visited, that magical shoulder season when the Greek Islands are waking up from their winter slumber but have not yet surrendered to the full madness of July and August. The air smelled of warming pine and something herbal I could never quite identify, perhaps oregano from the hillsides or simply the general fragrance of a place that has decided to be pleasant. The temperature sat somewhere in the mid-twenties, warm enough to make you grateful for a breeze but not so fierce that you spent every afternoon hunting for shade like a desperate lizard.

My accommodation was one of those traditional stone houses you find tucked into Kokkari's winding lanes, the sort with wooden shutters that creak satisfyingly and a terrace that looks as though it has hosted several decades of evening wine consumption. The owner, a woman called Eleni with formidable eyebrows and an even more formidable command of English, showed me round with the efficiency of someone who has performed this ritual hundreds of times yet still manages to make it feel personal. She pointed out the lemon tree in the courtyard, already heavy with fruit that would not fully ripen for another fortnight, and explained that the outdoor shower was "very nice in June, perhaps too exciting in February." I did not ask for clarification.

What struck me most about visiting at this time of year was the rhythm of the village itself. The tavernas along the harbour were open but not frantic, the waiters having actual conversations rather than simply taking orders at a sprint. I ate grilled octopus one evening at a table practically on the water, watching fishermen mend nets with the unhurried precision of men who know the sea is not going anywhere. A cat materialised from nowhere, judged my offering of bread insufficient, and departed with obvious disappointment. The sun did not set until after eight, stretching the evenings into something luxurious and unhurried, as though time itself had decided to relax into summer gradually rather than rush headlong into it.

The hills behind Kokkari were carpeted with wildflowers, a brief explosion of colour that would be gone within weeks as the heat intensified. I walked the coastal path toward Lemonakia beach one morning, encountering perhaps three other people, all of whom nodded with the easy camaraderie of those who have chosen wisely and know it. The sea was still that extraordinary clear turquoise, though Eleni had warned me it would be "a bit fresh," which turned out to mean "bracing enough to make you gasp but not so cold that you actually die." I emerged feeling vigorously alive and slightly ridiculous, which is perhaps the ideal holiday condition.

By the second evening, I understood why people return to places like this year after year. It was not merely the beauty, though that was undeniable, but the particular quality of late spring light, the sense of having arrived at precisely the right moment, before the crowds and the heat and the general intensity of peak season. There was something gently reflective about it, a reminder that timing matters more than we often admit, whether in travel or in life more generally. I thought of my wine bottle rolling across that ferry deck and smiled. Sometimes the mishaps lead somewhere worthwhile after all.

On my final morning, Eleni brought me coffee and a slice of something sticky and orange-scented, told me the jasmine would be "completely crazy" by July, and wished me well with a warmth that felt entirely genuine. I sat on that terrace watching the harbour come to life, the fishing boats heading out, the first tourists appearing with their cameras and their optimism, and felt something I can only describe as peaceful anticipation, the sense of a place continuing its ancient seasonal cycle regardless of whether I was there to witness it. I rather hope I was not.