I had been looking forward to our gite break in Fressin for weeks, so naturally I spent the entire drive from Calais convincing myself we were lost. My other half, Dave, kept insisting the sat nav knew what it was doing, but when you've just spent forty minutes circling what turned out to be the same beet field three times, you start to question modern technology. The mishap, when it came, was entirely my fault. I'd packed a bag of snacks for the journey, including a large tub of olives, which I somehow managed to upend all over my lap while trying to fold the map. Have you ever tried brushing olive oil off linen trousers in a moving car? I looked like I'd had a very personal encounter with a chip shop by the time we finally spotted the sign for Fressin.

The gite itself sat down a narrow lane, all red brick and proper shutters, with a garden that looked like someone had actually cared about it rather than simply tolerated it. We arrived in that golden afternoon light that makes everything look slightly better than reality, and I will admit I felt something loosen in my chest. The key was where they said it would be, under a pot by the door that was far too obvious for my liking, though I suppose rural France operates on different rules than London.

Inside smelled of wood polish and something faintly herbal, perhaps the previous guests had been cooking with the rosemary that grew in clumps by the back step. The kitchen had one of those proper gas hobs that always makes me feel like a serious cook, even though my repertoire extends to about four dishes, two of which involve pasta. Dave immediately started opening every cupboard, as is his ritual, while I stood in the doorway to the garden and just looked.

That garden became the entire holiday, really. Not in any dramatic way, just in the sense that we stopped trying to do things. The first morning I took my coffee out in my dressing gown, which I never do at home because we overlook a bus stop, and I sat on the slightly wonky wooden chair watching a blackbird work its way through the flowerbeds. I had brought three books and actually read two of them, something I haven't managed on a holiday in years. Usually I pack them with such optimism, then spend the week dashing about feeling vaguely guilty about unread pages.

We did walk to the boulangerie in the village most days, which took perhaps fifteen minutes at the pace we adopted. The woman behind the counter started recognising us by the third visit, though whether that was affection or mild amusement at my attempts to pronounce "pain aux raisins" I couldn't say. We bought cheese from the supermarket in Hesdin once, and ate it in the garden with bread that went slightly hard before we finished it, because we kept forgetting meals were happening.

The weather obliged with that particular sort of warmth that doesn't demand anything of you. I spent one entire afternoon on the lounger, supposedly reading, actually dozing with the book on my chest, waking only when a bee investigated my glass of cider. Dave pottered about deadheading things and claiming he was gardening, though I noticed the actual work seemed minimal compared to the sitting down and surveying that accompanied it.

I kept meaning to plan an outing, perhaps to Montreuil-sur-Mer or somewhere with historical significance, but the intention never quite became action. There was always tomorrow, and then tomorrow turned out to be perfect for sitting in the patch of sun that moved across the lawn, or for watching the swallows dart about in the evening. I felt briefly guilty about this laziness on our fourth day, sitting there with nothing accomplished, until I realised that was precisely the point. The gite had no television, which seemed an oversight at first and then a gift. The WiFi worked if you stood near the kitchen window and held your phone at a specific angle, which meant we checked it perhaps twice daily rather than every six minutes.

On our last evening we barbecued some sausages that were probably meant for something more sophisticated, ate them with our fingers, and stayed outside until the light had properly gone and the bats came out. I felt wonderfully unimproved by the week, no culture absorbed, no steps counted, no stories worth telling at dinner parties except this one about olives and getting lost. It was exactly what I needed, though I hadn't known it until I arrived. We left the key back under its pot, drove away past the same beet fields, and I spent the journey home planning how soon we could return to do absolutely nothing again.