I have never been so happy to see a cow in my life. There she was, chewing thoughtfully in a field just outside Morag, and I nearly got out of the car to thank her personally. You see, after six hours of driving from Gdansk airport, convinced my sat nav had developed a personal vendetta against me, that cow meant civilisation. Or at least a village. Possibly a road that was not actively trying to shake my Renault Clio to pieces.

The mishap, because there is always one with me, happened about forty minutes from the property. I had stopped for petrol and, in my wisdom, decided to treat myself to a coffee from the station machine. It was not coffee. I am still not entirely certain what it was, but it went everywhere. On my jeans, on the steering wheel, in the cup holder that will never be the same again. I drove the rest of the way smelling like a burnt toffee factory explosion, windows open, Polish radio blaring something cheerful that I could not understand but appreciated enormously.

The holiday home itself sits on the edge of Lake Skiertag, though calling it a lake feels almost too grand. It is more of a generous pond, really, surrounded by birch trees and the kind of silence that makes you realise how much noise you normally live with. I stumbled out of the car, still slightly sticky, and just stood there. The afternoon sun was doing that low, golden thing it does in late August, and somewhere a woodpecker was having a go at a tree with admirable persistence.

The house is one of those proper wooden Polish affairs, all dark beams and a deck that creaks pleasantly underfoot. I dumped my bags with the enthusiasm of a woman who has been sitting too long and immediately claimed a sun lounger. There are two, positioned with what I can only describe as strategic laziness in mind. Facing the water, obviously. Partially shaded by a tree that has been thoughtfully dropping the occasional leaf onto my book for three days now. I have named her Brenda.

I did not do much that first afternoon. I mean, I unpacked eventually. The kitchen is surprisingly well-equipped for somewhere so determined to encourage idleness, and I made a cup of tea that actually tasted of tea, which the petrol station coffee had really thrown into sharp relief. Then I wandered down to the little jetty, which wobbles in a way that feels characterful rather than alarming, and dipped my toes in. The water was warmer than expected. I may have said "oh" out loud, to nobody.

The village of Morag itself is ten minutes by bicycle, which the property provides, complete with a basket that I have filled with nothing more demanding than bread and cheese from the local shop. The shopkeeper, a woman with spectacular eyebrows and limited English, communicated entirely through gestures and shared laughter at my attempts to pronounce "prosze." We got on famously. I have been back four times. The cheese is excellent.

But mostly, I am here for the glorious nothing. For reading three chapters and realising I have absorbed absolutely none of them because I was watching a dragonfly. For the way the morning sun hits the deck at precisely the right angle to make getting up feel unnecessary. For cycling slowly to nowhere in particular, finding a bench, and sitting on it with the satisfaction of someone who has achieved something profound by achieving nothing at all.

Yesterday I attempted a swim. I use "swim" loosely. It was more of a prolonged float with occasional arm movements. The water was flat as glass, and I lay on my back looking at clouds that I am fairly certain were not moving. I thought about work, briefly, the way you do, and then I thought about how far away it felt, and how little that distance bothered me.

There is a barbecue I have used twice, badly. There are neighbours I have waved at from my lounger, too lazy to walk over. There is a bottle of Zubrowka in the freezer that I am working through at a pace that suggests retirement rather than holiday.

I came here thinking I needed activity, adventure, stories to tell. What I needed, apparently, was to sit very still in sunshine and remember that my own company is not so terrible. The burnt coffee disaster feels like it happened to someone else now. Though the cup holder still crunches slightly when I open it, a small memorial to the journey here.

Tomorrow I might kayak around the lake, if the mood takes me. Or I might not. Brenda will keep dropping her leaves regardless, and the sun will move across the deck, and I will move with it, slowly, like a cat.