I have never been so happy to see a petrol station in my life. Three hours into our drive from Alicante airport, convinced the sat nav was playing some elaborate prank, we finally spotted a Repsol and pulled in to ask directions. Turns out Playa Honda is not, in fact, "just past Cartagena" as I had confidently announced to my partner. It is, in fact, a good twenty minutes the other way. We had been cheerfully heading towards the middle of nowhere, arguing about whether "Honda" meant there would be motorbikes. There are no motorbikes. There is, however, a very patient woman at the petrol station who has clearly done this before.

By the time we rolled up to the apartment, the sun was doing that heavy, golden thing it does in late afternoon, and I had achieved that special state of sweaty delirium unique to British people in cars without air conditioning. The complex was low-rise, white-walled, surrounded by palms that rattled gently in the warm breeze. Somewhere nearby, a child was having the time of their life in a pool. I wanted to be that child. I wanted to be anything other than a forty-something man who had just discovered he cannot read a simple map.

The key was in a lockbox, which I fumbled with for an embarrassing length of time while my partner stood nearby making encouraging noises. The door opened onto cool tiles and that particular smell of somewhere that has been closed up in the heat - clean, slightly lemony, with a hint of sunscreen ghost. I dumped our bags and went straight to the balcony, because priorities. The Mar Menor stretched out below, that strange, shallow lagoon that looks like someone has Photoshopped the colour, impossibly pale blue-green and utterly still. A few paddleboarders drifted about like they had nowhere to be. I decided immediately that I also had nowhere to be, and that this would be my entire personality for the next week.

The apartment itself was simple in that perfect holiday way - decent beds, a kitchen that actually had sharp knives, which feels like a small miracle. But we did not cook that first night. We walked five minutes along the promenade to a beach bar, ordered patatas bravas and cold beers, and watched the light change over the water. The waiter did not rush us. Nobody rushed anyone. A man at the next table was reading the same paperback for the entire hour we sat there, turning perhaps three pages. I admired his commitment.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm so lazy it barely qualified as rhythm. Morning coffee on the balcony, watching the early swimmers. A slow wander to the local shops for bread and tomatoes that actually taste of something. Then nothing. Glorious, intentional nothing. Reading in the shade until my book became too heavy to hold. Dipping into the pool when the heat demanded it, floating on my back like a contented starfish. The Mar Menor is shallow and warm, more like a bath than the sea, which means you can wade out for ages and still touch the bottom. I found this deeply satisfying, being someone who does not trust the open ocean and its hidden agendas.

Some afternoons we would rouse ourselves for a gentle stroll along the promenade, perhaps as far as the little marina with its boats sitting idle and its bar serving horchata that tastes of almonds and childhood summers. We never made it to Cartagena, despite my earlier navigational ambitions. We never made it much of anywhere, honestly. There was a small supermarket where I practised my terrible Spanish on a woman who patiently corrected my pronunciation of "cerveza" every single time. There was a chiringuito where we ate grilled sardines and watched the sun drop into the lagoon like a coin into a wishing well.

On our last evening, I found myself on the balcony with a glass of something local and cheap, watching the same paddleboarders from day one, or perhaps their spiritual successors. My partner was inside, dozing over a novel. I thought about all the things I had not done - no museums, no day trips, no cultural enrichment beyond learning that I cannot read maps and that Spanish tomatoes are superior. I felt no regret whatsoever. There is a particular joy in doing very little in the sunshine, in allowing a place to simply hold you rather than demand anything. The Mar Menor does not care about your itinerary. The palms do not ask what you achieved today. I had achieved precisely enough, which was almost nothing, and it had been absolutely perfect.