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 Torre dei Corsari. We had flown into Cagliari in late May, hired a small Fiat that smelled faintly of sun cream and regret, and set off up the west coast with what I confidently described as "a solid sense of where we're headed." Three wrong turns and one accidental tour of a sheep farm later, we found ourselves on a dusty track surrounded by macchia scrub, wondering if our sat nav had developed a personal vendetta. The sheep looked unimpressed. My partner looked significantly less amused than the sheep.

The season made everything feel slightly theatrical. Late spring in Sardinia is not the baked, tourist-thick peak of July or August. It is something more tentative and green, like the island is still deciding whether to fully commit to summer. The hills were covered in wildflowers we could not name, and the air carried that particular Mediterranean freshness that makes you forget you ever owned a winter coat. When we finally spotted the tower complex rising above the coastline, it felt like stumbling onto a film set before the crew had arrived.

Our apartment sat within one of those low-rise blocks typical of the Torre dei Corsari development, all sandy concrete and angular balconies designed to catch whatever breeze the sea might offer. In high season, I imagine the place hums with activity, children shrieking in the pool, the smell of someone else's barbecue drifting through every open window. But in late May, there was a lovely, half-empty quality to it all. A few Italian families had made the early start of it, and we exchanged polite nods with a man who seemed permanently occupied with drying swimming costumes on his railing. The pool itself sat there, glittering and underused, like an invitation we kept meaning to accept.

The beach was the thing that proper arrival revealed. Spiaggia di Torre dei Corsari stretches below the cliffs in a long crescent of pale sand, and in late spring it belongs almost entirely to locals and the occasional confused tourist who took a wrong turn near a sheep farm. The sea was still gathering its courage for the full warmth of summer, and I will not pretend my first paddle did not involve some undignified gasping. My partner, who grew up swimming in the North Sea and consequently has no sensible relationship with cold water, plunged straight in and emerged looking unbearably smug. I developed a sudden fascination with beachcombing.

What struck me most, wandering those first few hours, was how the season shaped every interaction. The small supermarket near the complex had not yet switched to its summer stock, so we bought bread and pecorino from a woman who had time to explain which local honey was worth the extra euro. The restaurant we found for dinner, perched above the water, still had tables available without reservation, and the owner seemed genuinely pleased to see us rather than professionally tolerant. He recommended a Vermentino that tasted of the sea breeze we had been driving through all afternoon, and we sat there as the light faded, feeling smug about our timing in a way that slightly embarrassed me even as I enjoyed it.

There is something about arriving somewhere slightly before the crowds, when the place has not yet hardened into its summer self. The Torre dei Corsari in late May felt like a secret we had been lucky enough to stumble upon, sheep-related detours and all. I kept thinking about how different it would be in August, the same beach packed with umbrellas, the same pool surrounded by bodies, the same roads clogged with cars full of people who had not got lost near livestock. I felt a complicated mixture of gratitude and something uncomfortably like superiority, which I tried to suppress because nobody likes a smug early-season tourist, even when they are secretly being one.

That first evening, sitting on our balcony with the last of the wine, I watched the last light catch the tower that gives the place its name, standing sentinel above the cliffs. The air was warm enough to sit out in, cool enough to need a light jumper. Perfect, in other words, if you are the sort of person who finds perfection in compromise. I am learning to be that person, I think. The sheep taught me that much.