I should have known the holiday had truly begun when I managed to lock both sets of keys inside the hire car at Palma airport, standing there in thirty-degree heat with a suitcase full of books and a face like a slapped haddock. Forty minutes and one very patient breakdown chap later, I was finally bombing east towards Manacor, windows down, smelling that dusty Majorcan countryside and grinning like an idiot.

The approach to Son Fangos is nothing dramatic, and I mean that in the best possible way. You leave the main road, rattle down a lane between dry-stone walls and almond groves, and suddenly there's this low, honey-coloured finca sitting among its own patch of garden with not much fuss about it. I dumped the car, still slightly trembling from my earlier incompetence, and stood there listening to absolutely nothing except some distant goat bells and a very enthusiastic cicada.

The first thing that struck me was how the place seems to breathe slowly. The terrace wraps round the front, all weathered tiles and a table that looks like it has hosted a thousand lazy lunches. I dumped my bags with indecent haste and made straight for the pool, which is one of those proper blue rectangles that actually looks inviting rather than ostentatious. The water was that perfect temperature where you can slip straight in without the usual theatrical gasping. I floated on my back for a good ten minutes, staring up at nothing much, and felt the airport stress actually drain out through my fingertips.

The house itself is simple and solid, the sort of place that knows what it's about. Thick walls, cool tiles underfoot, wooden shutters that actually work. I poked my head into the kitchen, noted the decent-sized fridge for wine and not much else, and decided immediately that elaborate cooking was not on this week's agenda. The sitting room has proper comfortable seating, none of that holiday-rental wicker that digs into your hips, and shelves with a few battered paperbacks left by previous guests. I nabbed a dog-eared thriller and took it straight back out to the terrace.

That first evening set the tone entirely. I walked the five minutes to the little cluster of buildings nearby, found a basic shop for bread and cheese and a bottle of something local and red, and was back before the sun had even thought about dipping. Sat on that terrace with my feet up, book forgotten on my lap, watching the light change over the fields. A farmer trundled past on a tractor that sounded like it had been running since the Franco era. I waved like a proper local. He looked faintly baffled.

The days since have blurred into a rhythm so gentle it's practically horizontal. Mornings by the pool with coffee and whatever novel I'm currently not finishing because I keep dozing off. Late afternoon wander down to the same shop for more supplies, perhaps a brief potter through Manacor itself to gawp at the pearl shops and grab an ice cream. Back for a swim as the heat softens, then that terrace again with something sizzling on the barbecue and the sky doing its pink-and-orange business.

I brought running shoes and a list of cultural sites. They remain untouched in my case. I have achieved precisely nothing of note, unless you count finishing three books, developing an impressive poolside snooze tan, and learning that the local goat cheese improves exponentially with each passing day. There is something deeply restorative about a holiday that asks nothing of you except to be present and occasionally turn the page.

Tomorrow I might drive to the coast, or I might not. There is a very comfortable sun lounger with my name on it, and frankly that feels like enough.