The satnav had other ideas about how to reach Saint Denis d'Oleron. Somewhere just past Rochefort it decided the scenic route meant a gravel track through what I can only describe as a very committed cabbage field. My partner, who had insisted on bringing an actual paper map "just in case," unfolded it with the smug energy of someone who had predicted the apocalypse. We were forty minutes late, slightly muddy, and I had somehow managed to sit on a pain au chocolat that was meant to be my breakfast.

The cottage itself appeared down a lane lined with pine trees, looking like something from a watercolour painting that had been left out in the sun. Whitewashed walls, terracotta roof tiles, shutters that actually shut. A garden that clearly had not heard about the concept of low maintenance. Madame Lebrun, who handed over the keys, spoke rapid French that my three years of school lessons absolutely did not cover, though we established through gestures and my tragic pronunciation that the boiler worked, the neighbours were quiet, and the fig tree was "tres ancien." I nodded as if I understood all three equally.

The first thing that struck me, once Madame had departed and we stood in the garden with our suitcases still in the car, was the quality of the silence. Not empty silence. The kind that hums. Bees in the lavender, something rustling in the hedge that I chose to believe was a bird, the distant clank of a neighbour's gate. I had brought three books, a stack of magazines, and ambitious plans for day trips. Within an hour, I had abandoned the magazines to the kitchen table and was simply sitting on the terrace with a cup of tea that tasted better than any tea had a right to.

The garden became our world. Mornings blurred into a routine so gentle it barely qualified as routine. Wake without alarm, make coffee in the small kitchen with its wonky drawer, carry it outside to watch the sun move across the lawn. There was a hammock strung between two trees that became my serious project. Not using it. The serious project was deciding whether to use it, then often deciding against it in favour of the wooden bench instead. The bench required less commitment.

I read one book in four days. This is, I should note, a personal record of slowness that I am genuinely proud of. Normally I consume books like crisps, one after another, barely tasting. Here I would read a chapter, look up at the sky for ten minutes, read another paragraph, get distracted by a lizard on the wall. The lizard and I developed what I can only call a relationship. I named him Bernard. He was not interested.

My partner took to deadheading the potted geraniums with a focus I found slightly alarming. "They're not even ours," I pointed out. "They are now," she replied, with the gravity of someone who had adopted a cause. She was right, of course. By day three we were discussing the hydrangeas as if they were mutual friends. Did we think the blue one was struggling? Should we water the tomatoes more? We had become people who discussed watering schedules. I did not recognise myself and found, to my surprise, that I did not mind.

The fig tree dropped fruit with soft thuds that became the soundtrack of late afternoons. We gathered them in a bowl, more than we could eat, and left the excess on the wall for whoever passed. No one passed. The figs sat there becoming jam essentially by themselves, which felt like a metaphor I was too relaxed to pursue.

On our final morning I woke early and sat in the garden with my tea, watching mist lift from the grass. I thought about all the things I had not done. The lighthouse we had not visited. The market in the village we had walked through once but not properly explored. The cycling route left folded in the brochure. I felt no regret whatsoever, which worried me slightly. Was this contentment, or had I simply forgotten how to be a proper tourist? Bernard the lizard appeared on the wall, judging as ever. I decided contentment was the answer that required less introspection.

We left the key under the pot as instructed, the garden slightly tidier than we found it, our muddy arrival already feeling like a story from someone else's holiday. The satnav behaved on the return journey, which I found almost disappointing. Some part of me had hoped for another cabbage field, another delay, another excuse to arrive nowhere in particular and stay there quite happily.