I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise no one that I managed to get myself thoroughly lost somewhere between Split Airport and Trogir Marina. The hire car sat-nav had apparently taken early retirement, and my phone decided this was the perfect moment to learn Croatian by translating every road sign into something resembling a crossword clue. Twenty minutes of cheerful wandering through olive groves later, I found myself in what I can only describe as a very patient man's driveway, where I performed a seventeen-point turn while his goat watched with obvious disdain.

When I finally spotted the actual marina, I nearly wept with relief. There it was, tucked along the coast with boats bobbing about like they had nowhere particular to be, which I immediately decided was an excellent life philosophy.

The property itself was one of those proper Dalmatian stone affairs, the sort that looks like it has been sunbathing for centuries and has absolutely no intention of rushing anywhere. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a woman who had been up since four in the morning and promptly collapsed into the garden. And that, dear reader, was more or less the pattern for the entire holiday.

I had brought three books with the ambitious intention of "getting through them," which now strikes me as hilariously aggressive. I read perhaps six pages of the first one on that initial afternoon, dozing off with it open on my chest like some literary breastplate. The garden had these lovely shaded spots under ancient-looking trees, and I developed what I can only describe as a serious relationship with a particular wooden lounger that creaked in a reassuring way whenever I shifted position.

The mornings became my favourite. I would wander out with coffee, still in whatever I had slept in, and simply watch the marina wake up. Local fishermen pottered about with that unhurried confidence you only see in people who genuinely know what they are doing. Sometimes a cat would wander through the garden with the air of someone checking their property portfolio. I named him Captain, though his actual name was probably something more dignified.

I did swim, occasionally, when the heat became persuasive rather than merely pleasant. The water down that way is the sort of clear that makes you slightly self-conscious about your swimming technique. There is something wonderfully humbling about performing your mediocre breaststroke while small fish observe with what feels like scientific interest.

My grand plans for day trips evaporated almost immediately. Split with its Diocletian's Palace sat only a short drive away, and Trogir's old town was practically visible from the garden, all that UNESCO heritage practically begging to be explored. I visited precisely once, for approximately ninety minutes, before retreating to my lounger with the satisfied exhaustion of someone who had just climbed Everest rather than wandered through a few medieval streets.

There was a small market in Trogir where I bought tomatoes that actually tasted of something, and some local wine that I worked through at an appropriately glacial pace. I ate simple things, mostly, bread and cheese and those magnificent tomatoes, sitting in the garden until the light went soft and golden across the water.

I think what surprised me most was how little I missed being busy. We are so conditioned to maximise experiences, to tick boxes and accumulate stories, that simply existing feels almost transgressive. But there I was, doing gloriously nothing, and it felt like the most honest holiday I had taken in years.

On my final morning, I packed with the reluctance of someone leaving a particularly good therapy session. Captain the cat appeared for his farewell inspection. I left my mostly unread books on the bedside table, not as failures but as promises to myself that I might learn to slow down properly one day.

Driving back to the airport, I missed the turnoff twice, naturally. But I was in no particular hurry.