I should have known the sat nav was up to no good when it started getting enthusiastic about a dirt track that looked like it had last seen a tractor in 1987. Three hours of surprisingly painless driving from Gdansk, and there I was, bouncing along what I optimistically called a road, convinced I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere near Olsztyn. The potholes had potholes. A heron gave me a look of profound pity. And then, just as I was rehearsing my Polish for "help, I am lost in a forest," the trees parted and there it was: a proper wooden house sitting pretty among the pines, with Kretowiny's lake glinting through the greenery like someone had left a mirror lying about.

The mishap, because there always is one with me, came during the grand unloading of the car. I had decided, in my infinite wisdom, to bring an inflatable kayak. Not a sensible one. A massive family-sized yellow monstrosity that I'd bought in a fit of optimism during a January sale. I wrestled it out of the boot, it wrestled back, and somehow we both ended up in the shrubbery with me wearing a rhododendron as a hat. The neighbours, if there were any hiding in that thick Polish woodland, got their entertainment for the week. I lay there for a moment, leaves in my collar, and thought: well, this is the pace now. This is exactly the pace.

And what a pace it turned out to be. The house itself had that satisfying smell of proper timber, the kind that makes you want to breathe deeper than usual. A deck out front practically begged for occupation, and I was happy to oblige. I spent the first afternoon doing absolutely nothing more strenuous than working out which chair caught the best afternoon sun. Spoiler: they all did, but I treated it like serious research anyway.

The lake became my morning ritual. Not swimming, mind you. I'm not one of those brisk, virtuous types. I'd wander down with a mug of tea that went cold because I forgot to drink it, find a spot on the little jetty, and watch the water do that glassy thing it does before the breeze picks up. Sometimes a fish would break the surface and I'd nod at it like we were old acquaintances. The kayak, once inflated with much huffing and a borrowed pump from the helpful local contact, got used precisely twice. Both times I paddled about twenty metres, decided that was quite enough adventure, and let myself drift while reading the same paragraph of my novel repeatedly. I cannot tell you what happened in that book. Something about a detective, possibly. The sun was warm and the water lapped and concentration became terribly optional.

I did explore, in my fashion. A wander to the village proper took all of twelve minutes and yielded a small shop where I bought bread that was still warm and some mysterious sausage I pointed at hopefully. The lady smiled in that way people do when foreigners make inexplicable choices. It was delicious, whatever it was. Another day I cycled slowly along a forest track, so slowly that mosquitoes kept pace with me for conversation. I turned back at what I decided was the exact right moment, which coincided with my water bottle becoming empty and my enthusiasm becoming full.

Evenings were for the deck again, watching the light change over the pines, grilling something simple, and discovering that Polish beer tastes particularly excellent when you've done nothing to deserve it. I slept better than I had in months, not because the bed was anything special, but because my body finally remembered what tiredness from actual rest felt like, rather than the frazzled exhaustion of screens and schedules.

On my last morning, packing the ridiculous kayak away with somewhat more dignity than its arrival, I caught myself in the mirror of the car window. Slightly browner, slightly slower-moving, wearing the same expression of mild contentment I'd seen on that heron by the potholed track. The sat nav tried to send me down the dirt road again on departure. I ignored it, took the longer way round, and didn't mind one bit.