I have never been so relieved to see a wooden gate in my life. After three hours of driving from Salzburg Airport, most of it spent navigating winding mountain roads while my partner read the directions backwards, we finally crunched up the gravel drive of our cottage in Puch bei Hallein. I was all set for a dramatic collapse onto the nearest garden chair, until I realised I had packed four novels, twelve pairs of socks, and absolutely no teabags. The first mishap of the holiday, and we had not even opened the door.

The cottage itself sat tucked beneath thick woodland with a garden that seemed to yawn out in every direction. I stood there with my empty mug, feeling slightly foolish, while a blackbird gave me what I can only describe as a knowing look from the fence post. Inside, the place had that particular stillness you cannot manufacture. Wooden beams, slightly uneven floors, windows that actually opened with a satisfying clunk rather than a modern wheeze. My partner immediately began investigating the kitchen with the intensity of someone who had not eaten since Heathrow. I simply walked back outside and claimed a weathered wooden lounger near the apple tree. It creaked ominously. I took this as a good sign.

That first afternoon set the tone for everything that followed. We had brought walking boots, you see. Proper ones, with serious soles. They sat in the hallway like two reproachful reminders of ambition neither of us possessed. The garden had divided itself into territories without our consultation. Morning sun fell across the small terrace where breakfast became a two-hour affair. Midday heat drove me to the shaded corner with my book, where I would read the same paragraph repeatedly because the distant sound of a stream kept stealing my attention. By late afternoon, the light shifted to the far end near the hedge, and I would migrate there with a blanket, feeling rather like a very slow and contented sundial.

There was a moment, perhaps day three, when I caught myself staring at a single cloud for what must have been twenty minutes. I am not someone who stares at clouds. I am someone who checks emails during television adverts and feels guilty about unread newspapers. Yet there I was, horizontal on grass slightly too long for a proper garden, watching nothing happen in the sky with genuine absorption. It felt almost transgressive. My partner found me there and simply nodded, as if this version of me had been inevitable all along.

The cottage garden offered small discoveries if you moved slowly enough, which I made certain to do. Wild strawberries near the compost heap. A frog that appeared reliably at dusk by the water butt. The particular angle of sunlight through the apple tree at exactly half past six. These became my landmarks, my daily itinerary. I stopped wearing my watch after the second day. My phone remained in a drawer, emerging only once to confirm that yes, the world continued without my commentary.

On our final morning, I packed those untouched walking boots with something approaching affection. They had witnessed something better than mountains. They had watched me learn to do absolutely nothing, and do it rather well. The blackbird returned to its fence post as we loaded the car. I saluted it with my empty mug, now filled with proper Austrian coffee, and drove away considerably slower than I had arrived.