I have never been a natural at packing light, and the drive from Tivat Airport to Herceg Novi proved it in spectacular fashion. There I was, wedged into a hire car with a suitcase that could have housed a small family, when my other half asked if I'd remembered the sun cream. Of course I had. It was in the suitcase. Which was now making a bid for freedom from the boot every time we took a corner too sharply. By the time we reached the turn for our holiday home, I had developed a nervous twitch every time I heard a clunk from the rear.

The Herceg Novi Mojdez sits in the sort of spot where you immediately forget about airport queues and overpriced sandwiches. The garden was the first thing that got me. Not manicured to within an inch of its life, but properly lived-in, with olive trees that looked like they'd been gossiping with each other for centuries and a terrace that caught the afternoon sun like it had been designed by someone who genuinely understood the art of doing nothing. I dumped my bag with the theatrical exhaustion of someone who had personally rowed from Tivat, then promptly discovered I had packed three novels and no swimming trunks. Reader, I wore my running shorts for three days. They were not flattering.

The first morning set the tone for everything that followed. I woke without an alarm, which felt borderline illegal, and wandered out to find the kettle and a view of the bay that made me briefly consider becoming a poet. I am not a poet. I am a man who once described a sunset as "quite orange, isn't it?" But there was something about sitting on that terrace with a cup of tea that felt like being let in on a secret. The sort of secret that involves not checking your emails and pretending the concept of a to-do list has never existed.

I had grand plans, obviously. This is my fatal flaw. I would hike to Savina Monastery. I would explore the Old Town's fortresses. I would become the sort of person who says "we simply must try the local wine" and means it. Instead, I read approximately forty pages of my first novel, fell asleep in a deck chair, and woke up with a pattern of wicker pressed into my cheek like a temporary tattoo. It was magnificent.

The garden became my entire world. There was a barbecue that I used with the cautious optimism of a man who has previously set fire to sausages, and a shaded corner where the breeze came through just right for afternoon reading. I started to measure time by the position of the sun on the terrace rather than by the clock. This is, I suspect, what people mean when they talk about slowing down, though I would never say so out loud because it sounds like something from a mindfulness app.

By day four, my greatest ambition was to finish my second novel and perfect the ratio of ice to lemon in my evening drink. I achieved one of these. The local shop supplied everything we needed without requiring anything so strenuous as a proper expedition, and the walk back with bread and tomatoes felt like genuine productivity. I mentioned this to my other half, who looked at me with the patient expression of someone who has watched me achieve nothing before.

The evenings were slow and warm and entirely without agenda. We ate outside until the mosquitoes staged their inevitable coup, then retreated indoors with the smug satisfaction of people who had done exactly enough. I caught myself thinking that I should probably plan something for tomorrow, then actively chose not to. This was the real holiday miracle, more impressive than any view or any meal.

On our final morning, I packed with the same chaotic energy I had arrived with, but something had shifted. The running shorts went in first, honoured for their service. The unread third novel went in too, unresented. I took one last look at the garden, at the olive trees and the terrace and the particular quality of light that had made doing nothing feel like the most worthwhile activity imaginable, and I understood something I will probably forget by next Tuesday. Some holidays are about what you do. This one was gloriously, perfectly, unapologetically about what you don't.