I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise no one that my sat-nav and I fell out somewhere between Chioggia and Rosolina Mare. I took what I firmly believed was a shortcut, ended up on a track between two salt flats, and spent twenty minutes performing a seventeen-point turn while a local fisherman watched from his boat with the kind of patience that only comes from four decades of waiting for fish. By the time I found the holiday park, I was half an hour late, slightly sunburned through the driver's window, and in desperate need of something cold.

The first thing that struck me about the place was the smell. Not the brine and diesel of the harbour towns I had passed through, but pine and warm dust and something faintly herbal that I later learned was the maquis scrub growing behind the dunes. The bungalow sat in a quiet row near the back of the complex, modest and cream-coloured with terracotta trim, the sort of place that makes no grand promises and therefore cannot disappoint. I dumped my bags on the terracotta tiles, opened every window, and stood in the middle of the living room doing absolutely nothing for a full five minutes. It was glorious.

The following morning I established what would become my routine. Coffee on the small terrace, watching the same elderly gent in a straw hat cycle past with a baguette in his basket. A slow wander to the beach, maybe twenty minutes through the pine woods on sandy paths where the shade fell in stripes. The beach itself was wide and unpretentious, the Adriatic doing its familiar trick of looking almost too calm to be a proper sea. I am not one for vigorous swimming, so I would wade to knee-depth, declare myself refreshed, and retreat to my towel with a book I had no intention of finishing quickly.

Lunch became a ritual of minor exploration. The local shops in Rosolina Mare proper sold bread still warm, tomatoes that actually tasted of something, and mozzarella so fresh it wept milk when cut. I ate simple meals on my terrace, watching geckos dart across the walls and feeling smug about my own laziness. There is a particular pleasure in doing very little in a place where nobody expects you to do anything at all.

Some afternoons I would walk south along the shore, past the organised rows of umbrellas, past the little wooden piers where teenagers fished with more enthusiasm than technique. The beach gradually grew wilder, backed by dunes held together with marram grass and low juniper. I would find a spot, read three pages, fall asleep, wake with sand in my hair and no idea what time it was. Once I woke to find a dog had buried something inches from my towel and was looking at me with proprietary pride. I congratulated him and went back to my dozing.

The evenings brought their own rhythm. A slow stroll to one of the simple trattorias near the marina, grilled sardines or a bowl of clam spaghetti, wine that cost less than bottled water at home. I spoke my halting Italian to patient waiters, eavesdropped on arguments I could not understand, watched the sky turn that particular dusty rose that seems to belong only to flat coastal places. Walking back in darkness, the pines making a sound like distant traffic, I felt the particular contentment of having earned my tiredness through absolutely no effort whatsoever.

On my final morning I packed with the reluctance of someone who has finally learned how to be still. The fisherman who had watched my reversing debacle passed by on his bicycle, raised his hat, and said something I chose to interpret as friendly. I left my book half-finished on the terrace table, a small offering to whoever came next. Some holidays you remember for what you did. This one I will remember for what I did not do, and how surprisingly difficult that had been to learn.