I have never been so relieved to see a set of garden furniture in my entire life. There it sat, just beyond the patio doors of our little cottage in Erquy, and I practically wept at the sight of it. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey from Roscoff had been straightforward enough, or so we thought. My partner had insisted on navigating, which in hindsight was our first mistake. The second was trusting a sat nav that apparently considered "shortest route" and "actual drivable road" to be mere suggestions. We found ourselves bumping down what I can only describe as a farm track, surrounded by fields of artichokes that seemed to judge us silently. The artichokes of Brittany, I later learned, are famously excellent. At that moment, they looked like spiky green witnesses to our folly.

"We are definitely lost," I announced, though this was hardly news.

"We are exploring," my partner replied, with the desperate optimism of someone who refuses to admit defeat to a vegetable.

Three wrong turns and one heated discussion about whether we had passed the same cow twice, we finally spotted the sea glinting in the distance. Erquy proper. The relief was immense. We wound down through the village, past the harbour with its fishing boats bobbing about, and found our cottage tucked away on a quiet residential lane. A proper Breton stone place, solid and unpretentious, with a garden that wrapped around it like a generous hug.

I will not lie. The first thing I did was collapse into one of those garden chairs I mentioned. The second thing I did was refuse to move for approximately four hours.

The mishap of our ridiculous journey had somehow burned off any lingering ambition to be productive tourists. We had vaguely discussed visiting Cap d'Erquy, perhaps walking the coastal path, maybe even attempting a spot of sailing. All of this evaporated in the September sunshine of that garden. There was a small table perfect for resting a cup of tea. There were hydrangeas doing their extravagant best in the borders. There was a book I had been meaning to read since approximately 2019.

I read forty pages that first afternoon. Forty pages! In normal life I consider three pages before falling asleep to be a personal triumph. Something about the particular quality of light, the distant sound of a neighbour's lawnmower, the complete absence of anywhere I needed to be. My partner dozed in the adjacent chair, occasionally waking to murmur something about perhaps thinking about considering a walk to the boulangerie tomorrow. We agreed this was excellent planning.

The cottage itself revealed its charms slowly. The kitchen was compact but capable, the sort of space that forgives mediocre cooking because everything tastes better on holiday anyway. The sitting room had a wood burner we never lit, September being kind enough without it, but which promised excellent hibernation potential. Upstairs, the bedrooms were simple, clean, unbothered by fuss. We slept better than we had in months.

I suppose I should feel guilty about our spectacular laziness. We did manage the boulangerie run eventually, returning with croissants that shattered perfectly and a loaf of bread that demanded nothing more than good butter and a lack of hurry. We wandered to the harbour one evening, watched the fishing boats come in, ate moules-frites at a restaurant where the waiter seemed genuinely pleased we had bothered. But mostly we did very little, and that very little felt like everything.

There is a peculiar joy in allowing yourself to be unremarkable on holiday. No peaks to bag, no sights to tick off, no photographs staged for future boasting. Just the garden, the chair, the book, the slow drift of an afternoon that asks nothing of you. I arrived in Erquy frazzled and slightly lost, literally and otherwise. I left, several days later, with a sunburnt nose, an actually finished novel, and the profound realisation that doing nothing well is a skill worth cultivating.

The artichokes, I imagine, would approve.