I should have known the holiday was going to be memorable when I got us lost before we'd even left the motorway. There I was, navigator in one hand, packet of wine gums in the other, absolutely convinced I'd memorised the route. My partner, who has the patience of a saint and the facial expressions of a man who definitely knew this would happen, simply turned the car around at the next exit and let the satnav take over. We arrived at Ostseeresort Olpenitz half an hour later than planned, me slightly deflated, him slightly smug, both of us ready to stop moving for a good long while.

Schleswig-Holstein in late spring is exactly the sort of place that makes you wonder why you ever thought you needed a packed itinerary. The resort sits on a narrow spit of land where the Schlei fjord meets the Baltic, and our cottage turned out to be one of those modern timber-framed numbers with enormous windows and a deck that practically begged you to sit down and stay there. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and promptly tripped over the doorstep. First impressions, I have decided, are terribly overrated.

The garden was small but perfectly formed, enclosed by a low hedge that gave just enough privacy without shutting out the sky. Someone had planted it thoughtfully - a few hardy coastal shrubs, some early flowering things I couldn't name, and a patch of grass that crunched pleasantly underfoot. I found a deckchair that afternoon and essentially refused to leave it. My partner brought out tea. I had a book I'd been meaning to read for eighteen months. The pages turned slowly. The sun moved across the sky. A seagull landed on the fence, looked at me with what I can only describe as professional contempt, and flew off again.

We had brought supplies, sensible people that we are, and so dinner that first evening was simple - bread, cheese, some excellent German ham, a bottle of wine. We ate on the deck as the light faded, watching the water change colour through shades I would struggle to name even now. Rose? Mauve? That particular grey-blue that only exists where sea meets sky? It didn't matter. Nothing much mattered, and that was rather the point.

The next morning I woke to the sound of wind in the hedge and the distant clink of someone's sailing rigging. I made coffee in the little kitchen, which was compact enough that you could reach the fridge, the kettle and the biscuit tin without taking more than two steps. This, I decided, was excellent design. I took my mug outside in my slippers, dew on the grass, and simply stood there breathing. I am not normally a person who stands and breathes. I am normally a person who checks emails and makes lists and worries about things that won't happen for three weeks. The cottage seemed to gently discourage this behaviour. I found I didn't mind being discouraged.

My partner emerged eventually, looking rumpled and content. We spent that day in a rhythm of almost embarrassing laziness. Reading in the garden. A slow walk to the nearby marina, just to stretch our legs and watch the boats. Back to the cottage for a lunch of leftovers eaten standing at the counter, because somehow that felt right. Then more reading, more tea, more watching the light change over the water.

I did have one moment of panic on the second afternoon, a familiar twitch of conscience suggesting I should be doing something, seeing something, making the most of my time. I actually stood up from my deckchair with vague intentions of productivity. Then I looked at the garden, at my half-finished book, at the way the afternoon sun fell across the wooden fence, and I sat back down. The panic passed. It felt like a small victory, honestly. Perhaps a pathetic one, but mine nonetheless.

The days continued in this fashion. We ventured to the small beach once, pebbles underfoot, the Baltic surprisingly brisk even in June. We walked back and spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, drying off, warming up, doing very little indeed. I finished my book. I started another. I learned the names of none of the plants in the hedge and felt no guilt whatsoever.

By the end of our stay, I had developed what I can only describe as a deep and personal relationship with that deckchair. We understood each other. It supported my questionable posture without complaint, and I in turn gave it purpose. My partner and I spoke less than we normally would on holiday, not because we were bored with each other, but because the place seemed to render unnecessary words unnecessary. We communicated in the language of tea rounds and blanket passes and pointing at particularly good clouds.

Leaving was harder than I expected. I took one last look at the garden, the hedge, the little patch of sky that had been ours for a week. I nearly tripped over the doorstep again, which felt somehow appropriate. We drove away slowly, neither of us quite ready to speed up, and I found myself already plotting when we might return to do absolutely nothing at all, somewhere near the water, somewhere the seagulls judge you and the deckchairs understand.