I have never been so grateful for a sat-nav in my entire life, and I say that as someone who once got lost in their own local Tesco car park. The flight into Ibiza was smooth enough, but the hire car queue at the airport moved at the pace of a sloth on a sun lounger, and by the time we finally set off for San Carlos, the April afternoon was already beginning to soften into that golden haze that makes the island so deceptive. It looks warm. It is not warm. Not really. Not in April.

I had packed like a fool, you see. Twelve years of British package holidays had programmed me to associate "Spain" with "roasting," so my suitcase was a shrine to shorts, vest tops, and a single flimsy cardigan that I had thrown in as an afterthought. My partner, who had actually checked the weather forecast like a functioning adult, smirked all the way up the PM-810 in his proper jacket. I sat there in a t-shirt, shivering slightly, pretending I was absolutely fine.

The road to San Carlos winds through countryside that in April is still shaking off winter's last sulk. The almond trees were just finishing their blossom, leaving a confetti of pale pink across the verges, and the fields between Santa Eulalia and Sant Carles de Peralta had that particular green that only lasts a few weeks before the sun bleaches it out. Everything felt provisional, in-between, not quite committed to summer. I found it oddly touching. There is something about visiting a place famous for its peak season madness and catching it while it is still yawning and stretching.

We found Villa Primavera down one of those rural lanes that the sat-nav treats with deep suspicion, the kind where you pass the same confused-looking goat twice and start questioning your life choices. The villa sits in proper countryside, surrounded by pine forest and agricultural land, and as we crunched up the gravel drive, the first thing that struck me was the silence. Not the silence of abandonment, but the silence of a place waiting. The pool was covered. The outdoor kitchen looked slightly forlorn, its surfaces cool to the touch. The terrace furniture was stacked with the apologetic air of things that know their time has not yet come.

Our host had left the heating on, bless them, and stepping inside was like walking into a hug. The villa has that traditional Ibizan finca character, thick whitewashed walls and wooden beams, and in April those walls work beautifully in your favour, holding onto warmth and keeping out the stubborn chill of early evening. I made straight for the fireplace, shamelessly, while my partner explored the kitchen. We had stopped at a supermarket in Santa Eulalia, loading up on proper provisions because we knew the San Carlos village restaurants would be operating on reduced hours, some still closed for the season. This is the trade-off you make for April Ibiza: you get the place to yourself, but you also get to cook your own dinner more often than you might in July.

The next morning, the sun had properly committed. We breakfasted on the terrace, wrapped in blankets like a pair of elderly eccentrics, watching the light move across the hills. The pool was technically usable, the host assured us, if we were "brave." We were not brave. We walked instead, down lanes fragrant with wild rosemary and thyme, through countryside that felt almost embarrassingly empty of other humans. In high season, these paths would be dusty and busy with hikers and cyclists. In April, we had them to ourselves, exchanging polite nods with the occasional local farmer.

San Carlos village itself, when we wandered down later, was operating in low gear. The famous Las Dalias hippy market was still a fortnight from opening for the season, its gates locked, the car park a desert of pale gravel. The church square had a few locals drinking coffee, wrapped in jackets, regarding the sunshine with the cautious optimism of people who have seen too many false springs. We found one bar open, one restaurant serving lunch, and ate simple grilled fish feeling slightly smug about our discovery, our secret Ibiza, though of course we were the ones out of place, the seasonal interlopers.

Back at the villa that evening, the temperature dropped sharply as soon as the sun slipped behind the pines. I lit the fire with the satisfaction of someone who has finally packed appropriately for once in their life, having borrowed my partner's fleece. The villa's layout, designed for summer living with its open plan and multiple terrace doors, felt slightly cavernous after dark, the rooms beyond the fire's reach retreating into shadow. We could have put the central heating on, but there was something pleasingly primal about huddling close, about the flicker and crackle, about the sense of occupying a summer house in defiance of the season.

What I keep thinking about, looking back, is how the April light made everything slightly uncertain, slightly provisional. The villa in summer would be a different creature entirely: pool splashing, barbecue smoking, doors flung open to the warm night, music drifting from the outdoor speakers. Our version was quieter, more self-sufficient, more inward. We read books by the fire. We cooked elaborate meals because there was nowhere else to be. We went to bed early because the darkness felt persuasive.

I would not swap it, though I might pack a proper coat next time. There is something to be said for catching a place before it puts on its performance face, for seeing the villa with its pool covered and its terraces bare, for walking through San Carlos while it is still deciding whether to wake up. The season shapes the experience more than we admit, I think. We talk about destinations as if they are fixed entities, but they are not. They are conversations with time and weather, and our April conversation with Villa Primavera was a private one, slightly awkward, genuinely warm, unexpectedly memorable. I hope we have it again someday, though perhaps with slightly more sensible luggage.