I have never been so pleased to see a petrol station in my life. Three hours into our drive from Split Airport, convinced the sat nav had developed a personal vendetta against us, we finally admitted defeat and asked for directions in what I can only describe as theatrical Croatian charades. My partner had insisted on taking the "scenic route," which turned out to be scenic in the same way a root canal is character-building. We missed the turn for Makarska twice, once because a goat refused to move, and once because I was absolutely certain I had seen a sign for Dubrovnik and panicked.

By the time we crawled up to the property, the sun was doing that glorious late-afternoon thing where everything looks slightly golden and forgiving. I stumbled out of the car with the grace of a newborn giraffe, stretched my back with an audible crack that suggested middle age had arrived early, and promptly walked into a lemon tree. Not brushed against it. Full shoulder-check into the branches, sending two perfectly good lemons rolling down the gravel path like they were escaping the scene of the crime.

The garden, though. That first impression stayed with me. Terraced levels of olive trees and lavender, a stone barbecue that looked like it had witnessed decades of slightly burnt fish, and somewhere in the distance, the proper sound of nothing much at all. No traffic hum, no urgent anything. Just bees being bees and the occasional distant conversation from a neighbouring terrace, carried on that warm Croatian air like someone else's lovely afternoon.

I had packed four books with the optimistic delusion that I might read them all. In truth, I read half of one over the entire fortnight, and that was precisely the point. The garden became my headquarters. Morning coffee on the terrace, watching the light change on the Biokovo mountains. Midday retreat to the shade of a pergola heavy with grape vines, where I would open my book, read three pages, and fall into that particular holiday sleep where you wake up with a dry mouth and no idea what year it is.

My partner took to the barbecue with the seriousness of a man who had finally found his purpose. There is something deeply satisfying about watching someone else tend to dinner while you contribute absolutely nothing beyond occasional encouragement. We ate grilled sardines that tasted of the sea and olive oil, tomatoes that actually tasted of tomatoes, and bread that required proper chewing. Everything slowed down. Meals stretched. Conversations meandered into comfortable silence.

I had worried, before we came, that I would feel restless. That the absence of museums to tick off, restaurants to review, sights to sightsee would leave me itchy and purposeless. I am not good at doing nothing. I come from a family where doing nothing is morally suspect, where relaxation must be earned through prior exertion. But somewhere around day four, sitting in that garden with a lukewarm drink and absolutely no plans, I felt something shift. Not a revelation exactly. More like a remembering. That this is also a way to be.

The property had a small pool, barely enough for a proper swim, perfect for floating. I floated a lot. Face up, watching swallows dart between the trees, thinking about very little, occasionally wondering if this was what retirement might feel like and whether I could possibly bring that date forward by several decades.

On our last evening, we walked the ten minutes down to Makarska's harbour, watched the boats come in, ate ice cream that melted faster than we could manage. Then back to the garden, to the lemon tree I had assaulted on arrival, now quietly producing more fruit in my direction. I apologised to it, silently. It did not seem to hold a grudge.

We left the books half-read, the barbecue slightly cleaner than we found it, and a part of me still sitting in that shaded corner, doing absolutely nothing, and finding it absolutely enough.