I have always believed that the best holidays begin with a minor disaster, if only to lower your expectations enough that everything afterwards feels like a triumph. So it was that my journey to Krk Dobrinj in Kvarner Bay started with me confidently marching onto the wrong ferry at Valbiska, waving my printed booking confirmation at a bemused Croatian sailor who, through a combination of broken English and expressive hand gestures, managed to convey that I was headed for Rab, not Krk, and that I had approximately ninety seconds to remove myself and my oversized wheeled suitcase before departure.

The suitcase, incidentally, had seemed a sensible choice during packing in rainy Manchester. On a sun-baked Croatian ferry ramp, with seagulls laughing at me from the railings, it felt like the physical manifestation of all my poor life choices. I wheeled it back to the car park, found the correct queue, and eventually boarded the right vessel, where I treated myself to an overpriced coffee and what I can only describe as a moment of quiet self-reflection. Mostly about my inability to read large printed signs.

The drive from the Krk ferry terminal to Dobrinj took perhaps twenty minutes, winding through olive groves and past stone houses that looked as though they had been casually dropped there by some benevolent giant centuries ago. I had deliberately chosen a property with no pool, no hot tub, no tennis court, no promise of organised entertainment. The listing had mentioned a garden, a terrace, and not much else. This was precisely the point.

Arriving at Krk Dobrinj, I immediately understood that I had made an excellent decision, albeit for reasons I had not fully anticipated. The garden was not manicured. It was not designed. It was simply there, occupying a generous slice of hillside, filled with lavender that smelled like someone had bottled the concept of relaxation, and an ancient fig tree that dropped its fruit with an almost aggressive generosity. Within an hour of arrival, I had established myself on the terrace with a book I had been meaning to read for approximately four years, a cup of tea made with water that took an age to boil on the small electric hob, and absolutely no intention of moving.

I did move, eventually, but only as far as the garden. There is a particular art to doing very little in a foreign country, I have discovered. It requires a certain confidence, a refusal to feel guilty about not seeing the sights, not taking the boat trip, not hiking to the viewpoint that everyone on TripAdvisor insists is unmissable. On my second day, I walked to the village of Dobrinj itself, perhaps fifteen minutes down a lane that smelled of wild herbs and occasional goat. I bought bread, cheese, and a bottle of local white wine that cost less than a London coffee. I walked back. That was the day's excursion complete.

The rest of the week followed this pattern with almost embarrassing consistency. Mornings on the terrace with coffee and whatever book I was slowly progressing through. Afternoons in the garden, either in the patch of shade provided by the fig tree or, when I felt particularly adventurous, on the small wooden bench positioned to catch the afternoon sun. I watched a gecko establish a territory on the terrace wall. I named him Gerald. We had an understanding.

There was a moment, perhaps on day four, when I considered driving to the coast proper, to one of the beaches I could see marked on the map. The intention was genuine. I even walked to where I had parked the car. Then I looked at the garden, looked at the terrace, looked at Gerald watching me with what I interpreted as mild disappointment, and walked back inside to make another cup of tea.

The property itself was simple in the best possible way. Thick stone walls that kept the heat at bay. Wooden shutters that creaked satisfyingly. A kitchen with exactly enough equipment to make simple meals without encouraging anything ambitious. I cooked pasta with tomatoes from a nearby farm stall, ate it on the terrace as the light faded, and felt genuinely confused about why I ever thought I needed more from a holiday.

On my final evening, I sat in the garden with the last of the cheap white wine and watched the sun disappear behind the hills. My suitcase sat in the corner of the bedroom, still slightly too large for what I had needed, still slightly ridiculous. I had not seen the famous sights of Krk. I had not taken the boat to anywhere. I had read two and a half books, developed a minor obsession with figs, and achieved what felt like a complete reset of my nervous system.

The wrong ferry, it turned out, had been the perfect beginning. By the time I arrived, I was already in the right frame of mind for doing absolutely nothing at all, and I left with absolutely no regrets about having succeeded so completely.