I have never been brilliant with directions, so it will surprise absolutely no one that I managed to get lost between Ibiza Airport and Santa Eulalia del Rio. The hire car sat nav had the confidence of a pub quiz know-it-all and about the same accuracy. Forty minutes of increasingly narrow lanes, one slightly aggressive encounter with a goat, and a deeply unhelpful three-point turn outside a finca later, I finally spotted the sea glinting in the distance and knew I was somewhere near civilisation.

The villa sat back from the road behind a low wall, all whitewash and terracotta tiles, looking pleasingly unbothered by my late arrival. I dumped the bags with the enthusiasm of someone who had been wearing the same clothes since five that morning and promptly discovered the patio doors were jammed. Ten minutes of undignified wrestling, one broken fingernail, and a whispered argument with an inanimate object later, I found the second set of keys in an entirely different pocket. The doors slid open with theatrical ease, as if they had never been stuck at all, and the warm air of the place wrapped around me like a blanket someone had left in the sun.

First impressions? It smelled of clean linen and something faintly herby, probably the potted rosemary sitting smugly by the kitchen window. The rooms were simple, tiled floors cool underfoot, furniture that looked like it had actually been chosen for comfort rather than Instagram appeal. I kicked off my shoes and walked straight through to the terrace, because that was clearly where the whole point of this holiday lived.

The pool caught the afternoon light and did that tempting shimmer thing. Beyond it, a few palm fronds shifted in a breeze I could not quite feel yet. I stood there in my socks, because I had not got round to finding my sandals, and felt something in my shoulders begin to unclench for the first time in months. The goat incident faded from memory.

I did not do much that first evening. Unpacked with the bare minimum of effort, found the nearest supermarket by following my nose rather than any map, and came back with bread, cheese, tomatoes, and a bottle of something local that cost less than a London coffee. Ate on the terrace watching the light change from harsh white to something softer and pinker. The villa had one of those outdoor lights on a sensor that kept flicking on whenever a moth got ambitious, which became oddly companionable after the third glass.

The next morning I woke without an alarm for the first time in living memory. Lay in bed listening to nothing much, birds and distant traffic and the occasional clatter of someone else's holiday beginning. Eventually wandered to the kitchen, made coffee with the stovetop pot I had to YouTube how to use, and took it back to bed with a book I had been pretending to read since March. This time I actually read it. Three chapters before I even thought about moving.

That became the pattern without any conscious decision. Slow breakfasts, longer than necessary. A stroll down to the local stretch of coast, not the famous beaches, just the ordinary bit of shoreline where locals walked dogs and old men fished with the patience of people who were not especially bothered about catching anything. Back for a swim when the heat built up, floating on my back watching clouds that did not require interpretation. Lunch assembled rather than cooked, eaten in the shade with another chapter or two.

I walked into Santa Eulalia proper once, maybe twice, poked around the marina with its boats that cost more than houses, had a coffee in a square where the chairs faced outward in that particularly Mediterranean way. Bought some sandals because I had given up on finding my original pair. That was about the extent of my ambition. Someone at the next table was talking loudly about a club night in San Antonio and I felt nothing but mild relief that it was not my problem.

The villa's little garden had a lemon tree that dropped fruit with casual abundance. I used them in everything, feeling disproportionately pleased with myself. The pool filter made a rhythmic hum that became the soundtrack to dozing, to reading the same paragraph three times without caring, to the particular luxury of having nowhere to be and nothing to prove.

On my last evening I sat out well after dark, something biting my ankle that I could not be bothered to swat properly, and watched the stars emerge with the slowness of a pub landlord pulling a proper pint. Thought about all the holidays I had taken where I came back needing another holiday, all the itineraries and must-sees and photographs taken to demonstrate I had been present at something. This had been different. I had done almost nothing, gone almost nowhere, and felt more restored than I had in years.

The sat nav tried to send me wrong on the return journey too, but I spotted the turn this time, smug with experience, and made it to the airport with time to spare. Sat in departures with my book, still not finished, already planning when I could come back and not finish it properly.