I have never been so pleased to see a pair of flip-flops in my entire life. There I was, standing on the gravel drive of our holiday let in Tordera, Catalonia, rummaging through a suitcase that contained everything except the one thing I actually needed. Somewhere between Gatwick and Girona, my sensible walking sandals had parted company with my luggage. I had spent the flight mentally rehearsing a stroll through medieval streets, and now I was destined to spend the week sounding like a clacking lobster every time I moved.

The drive from the airport had already set the tone for what I can only describe as determined relaxation. My partner drove while I navigated, which is to say I held my phone upside down for twenty minutes before noticing. The Catalan countryside rolled past in shades of gold and green, dotted with cypress trees that stood to attention like nature's own sentries. We passed through villages where old men sat on plastic chairs outside shops, solving the world's problems one slow gesture at a time. I envied them already.

Arriving at the house felt like stepping through a portal into someone else's better-organised life. The place had that particular stillness you only find in properties where the primary activity is deciding which terrace gets the afternoon sun. I immediately claimed a lounger by the pool and declared my intention to read an entire novel before dinner. This was approximately four hours ago. I have read seven pages and fallen asleep twice. It is magnificent.

Tordera itself does not demand much of you, which is precisely its charm. The town ambles along at its own pace, with a handsome church square where the bars serve Estrella by the cana and nobody seems in a terrible hurry about anything. We wandered to the market on Thursday morning, more for the pleasure of wandering than for any serious provisioning. I bought tomatoes that actually tasted of something, which felt like a minor miracle after British supermarket fare, and some rather assertive cheese that I suspect will feature in my dreams for weeks to come.

The gentle exploration of locality has become our religion. Each morning we discuss potential excursions with the enthusiasm of people who know we will probably just end up at the pool again. We did manage the fifteen-minute stroll to the river path one morning, where I attempted to identify birds using an app and succeeded mainly in confirming my own ignorance. A small brown bird remained stubbornly unidentified. I have named him Trevor and moved on.

There is something deeply restorative about a holiday that asks nothing of you except presence. I had packed with such ambition: hiking boots, guidebooks, a rain jacket for dramatic coastal walks. They sit in the wardrobe like silent reproaches while I perfect the art of horizontal living. My greatest achievement yesterday was finishing a crossword and not immediately requiring a nap. The day before, I moved my lounger three feet to follow the shade. These are the victories that matter.

I find myself noticing things I would normally stride past without a glance. The particular quality of light at six in the evening, when the whole garden turns honey-coloured and even the insects seem to slow their buzzing. The way the neighbour's cat has established diplomatic relations with us, accepting tribute of leftover ham with the regal indifference of a creature who knows exactly what he is worth. The distant church bells that mark time more reliably than any watch I own.

There is a gentle self-reflection creeping in with the suntan. I am not, it turns out, a person who needs constant stimulation. I am a person who needs a decent paperback, a supply of chilled vermouth, and the permission to do absolutely nothing without guilt. Catalonia has granted me this permission in abundance. The flip-flops, I have decided, were not a mishap at all. They were a message from the universe to slow down, embrace the clack, and let the world turn without my assistance.

Tomorrow we might drive to the coast. Or we might not. The beauty is in the not knowing, and in the not particularly caring either way.