I had been dreaming of doing absolutely nothing for months, so when my taxi driver from Las Palmas airport asked if I was visiting for the hiking, I just laughed and said I was mainly here to perfect the art of horizontal living. He nodded politely, probably wondering why anyone would fly to Gran Canaria to essentially become a very warm, slightly sunburned slug.

My holiday apartment was in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria itself, right in the thick of things near Playa de Las Canteras. The sort of place where you can roll out of bed and onto the promenade without really trying. I had grand plans for this arrival, you see. I was going to stride in looking like one of those effortlessly chic travellers you see in airport adverts, perhaps with a linen shirt casually unbuttoned to show I meant business about relaxing. Instead, I got spectacularly lost in the apartment building's car park, wandered around the same concrete pillar three times with a wheelie case making that sad clacking noise, and eventually had to be rescued by a friendly local who simply pointed at the clearly marked lift I had somehow failed to see. So much for chic. I was sweating, slightly hysterical, and already considering whether I could just live in the underground garage where nobody knew my name.

But then I found the place, dumped my bags, and opened the balcony doors. The Atlantic did that thing where it just sprawls out in front of you, all blue and shamelessly glittering, and I felt my shoulders drop about three inches. The apartment had that lovely lived-in holiday feel, nothing too fussy, just somewhere that wanted you to make yourself at home. I immediately claimed the balcony chair as my territory for the week, like a territorial seagull but less aggressive and with better snacks.

The first morning, I woke with no alarm for the first time in approximately eighteen months. The sun was already doing its thing, so I shuffled down to Las Canteras beach in flip-flops, bought a coffee from a little kiosk, and just sat there watching the early swimmers. There is something deeply humbling about watching a seventy-year-old Gran Canaria local slice through the waves with the grace of a seal while you are still struggling to open your pastry without getting sand in it. I decided then and there that my holiday goals were modest and entirely achievable. Read books. Swim occasionally. Eat things with my hands. Repeat.

I did venture out, of course, but never far. The neighbourhood around the apartment had everything a dedicated loafer could want. Little tapas bars where you could perch with a beer and some pimientos de padron, never quite sure which pepper would set your mouth on fire. A tiny supermarket where I became embarrassingly familiar with the ice cream selection. The promenade itself became my daily constitutional, though I use the word loosely. It was more of an amble, really. A philosophical wander. I would potter down to the southern end where the reef creates those calm natural pools, watch families splashing about, and feel genuinely pleased that I had absolutely nowhere else to be.

Back at the apartment, I perfected a rigorous routine of balcony-based inactivity. Morning: book, coffee, occasional glance at the sea to confirm it was still there. Afternoon: siesta that I absolutely did not need but performed with theatrical commitment. Evening: gin and tonic, sunset, and that particular satisfaction of watching the day dissolve into something pink and hazy while still in your swimming costume.

I did swim, I should mention, though never with any athletic intention. Just a gentle bobbing about in the shallows, emerging when I felt like it, not when I had reached any particular distance. The Canteras beach is perfect for this sort of non-committal aquatic activity. No big waves to bully you, no strong currents to worry about. Just the Atlantic in a unusually accommodating mood, letting you float about like a very contented piece of driftwood.

By day four, I had stopped checking my phone entirely. By day five, I had genuinely forgotten what day it was and had to work it out from the rubbish collection schedule. This felt like a significant achievement, the sort of thing I would put on a CV if CVs rewarded proper relaxation instead of relentless productivity.

On my final morning, I packed with the lethargic reluctance of someone who has truly settled into doing very little. The balcony chair had moulded to my shape, or perhaps I had moulded to it. Either way, we had become one. I took one last stroll along the promenade, bought one last questionable pastry, and realised that this was exactly the holiday I had needed. Not the dramatic adventures, not the ticked-off sights. Just the glorious, underrated art of slowing down until you almost stop, in a place where the sunshine makes it feel not just acceptable but practically compulsory.

The taxi back to the airport was quieter. I had nothing to report, no stories of dramatic excursions or near-death experiences. Just a week of very small, very perfect pleasures, and the certain knowledge that I would be back to do absolutely nothing all over again.