The thing about driving on the right, I've decided, is that you really ought to remember which side the petrol cap is on before you pull up to a pump in Cagliari and start flapping about like a confused pigeon. I'd been doing so well too, all the way from the airport, humming along to some dreadful Italian pop station, feeling terribly continental. Then I spent a solid five minutes trying to stretch the nozzle round the wrong side of the hire car while a queue of remarkably patient Sardinians looked on. One chap even got out to help, which rather finished off any remaining dignity.

Still, the embarrassment faded the moment I turned down the lane towards Is Molas. You know that feeling when the world suddenly goes quiet except for cicadas and the crunch of gravel under your tyres? That. The place sits among low hills covered in scrubby maquis and the occasional umbrella pine, the sort of landscape that makes you want to exhale for about ten minutes straight. I parked up, still slightly sweaty from my petrol station ordeal, and stood there like a lemon just breathing in warm rosemary and sea salt on the breeze.

The property itself is one of those whitewashed numbers with terracotta roof tiles that look like they've been there forever without actually falling down, which I suppose is the point. My first move, naturally, was to locate the terrace. Every holiday decision I make is essentially terrace-based. This one did not disappoint, shaded by a pergola with vines doing their best to keep things civilised, looking out towards that hazy blue line where the sky meets the Med. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a man who'd forgotten what a Ryanair seat feels like and promptly did absolutely nothing for two hours.

Doing nothing, I should clarify, is an active pursuit here. There's a particular art to it. You start with a book, something entirely undemanding, and read perhaps four pages before your attention drifts to a lizard on the wall. You watch the lizard. The lizard watches a fly. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once and thinks better of it. You realise an hour has passed and you've achieved precisely nothing, yet somehow feel thoroughly accomplished. This became my routine.

The nearest village, Pula, sits about ten minutes away, close enough for morning croissants and evening passeggiata but far enough that nobody bothers you. I wandered down occasionally for a coffee that took twenty minutes to arrive and three seconds to drink, standing at the bar like the locals do, pretending I understood the football commentary blaring from the corner. The Roman ruins at Nora are just along the coast, and I did mean to visit them properly, I really did. I got as far as the car park one morning, looked at the entrance, then spotted a cove nearby and spent the afternoon there instead, floating in water so clear you could count your own toes and feeling rather pleased with my life choices.

Back at Is Molas, the days developed their own rhythm. Mornings on the terrace with bread and apricot jam, watching the heat build. Afternoons horizontal, either by the pool or on one of those slightly battered loungers that have clearly seen decades of people deciding not to move very much. Evenings meant walking down to the local spots for grilled fish and Vermentino, that crisp white wine that tastes of limestone and sunshine, then wandering back in darkness thick with jasmine scent and the occasional bat doing aerobatics overhead.

I brought three books and finished one, which I consider a triumph of intention over achievement. The others got as far as being opened, read a chapter, then abandoned in favour of staring at clouds or dozing with my mouth open like a proper holiday wally. There's something deeply honest about a place that lets you be this lazy without making you feel guilty about it. No dramatic scenery demanding to be photographed every five minutes, no checklist of sights, just the gentle pleasure of warmth on skin and time passing unnoticed.

On my last morning, I finally got round to visiting those Roman ruins at Nora, mostly because I'd run out of excuses. They were rather good, as it happens, all mosaic floors and crumbling amphitheatres right by the sea. But honestly? I spent most of the walk back thinking about my terrace, my book, and whether I'd left enough wine in the fridge. Some holidays change you, broaden the mind, all that. This one simply reminded me that I am, at heart, a creature designed for horizontal living in pleasant climates, and that realising this is perhaps wisdom enough for one trip.