I should have known the holiday was going to be an adventure when I managed to pack three left flip-flops and not a single right one. There I was at Stansted at six in the morning, rummaging through my suitcase like a dog after a dropped chip, while my other half did that slow blink he does when questioning his life choices. A quick dash to Accessorize later and I was the proud owner of some genuinely atrocious neon sandals that would haunt every poolside photo for the next fortnight.

The flight to Valencia was mercifully short, though I spent most of it fretting about whether I'd remembered to turn the hob off. Spoiler: I had. We collected our hire car and headed south, the city giving way to orange groves and then the gentler hills near Villalonga. The sat-nav had one of its little moments and tried to send us down what I can only describe as a goat path, complete with an actual goat who looked deeply unimpressed with our Fiat 500. We backtracked, found the proper road, and eventually spotted our villa sitting pretty among pine trees with a private pool glinting in the afternoon sun.

I will be honest with you: I stood at the gates and actually said "oh, go on then" out loud, as if the place needed my approval. It did not. The villa was one of those proper Spanish holiday homes that feels lived-in and loved rather than sterile and hotel-ish. Terracotta floors, white walls, wooden shutters that clatter satisfyingly in the breeze. I dumped my bag in the nearest bedroom without even checking which one I'd claimed, marched straight to the pool terrace, and lowered myself into a lounger with the grace of a walrus settling onto a rock.

And that was more or less the pattern for the entire stay. I had brought four books and I intended to make a serious dent in all of them. The first morning I woke with no alarm, padded out to the kitchen in my pyjamas, made what I optimistically called a cafe con leche using the little stovetop pot, and took it outside to watch the sun climb over the hills. The swallows were doing their dawn acrobatics and I just sat there, slightly too hot coffee in hand, feeling smug in a way that only a British person in proper sunshine can feel.

The pool became my office, my gym, and my therapy couch. I did laps when I felt energetic, which was not often. Mostly I floated on a lilo that had a picture of a flamingo on it, reading my novel and occasionally letting my fingers trail in the water until they went wrinkly. My other half took to bringing me snacks like I was some sort of invalid, which I absolutely encouraged. Slices of watermelon, bowls of olives, the odd Estrella when the clock passed some arbitrary point that felt appropriate.

We did venture out, but never far and never with any real urgency. The village of Villalonga itself is a quiet sort of place, all narrow streets and locals who nod at you in that accepting way that suggests they have seen many sunburned Brits before and will see many again. We found a little bar where the patatas bravas were actually spicy and the beer was properly cold, and we went back three times because why wouldn't you? There was a small supermarket where I practiced my GCSE Spanish on a very patient woman who eventually just spoke English to put us both out of our misery.

One afternoon we drove perhaps ten minutes to a spot where you could walk along a dry riverbed, the sort of landscape that makes you feel like you're in a Western film if Western films had occasional abandoned orange farm machinery. I took photos of flowers I couldn't identify and my other half took photos of me taking photos, which is the modern holiday experience in a nutshell. Then we went back to the villa and I had a nap by the pool, because that is what you do when the sun is doing its job properly.

I think the thing that struck me most was how quickly I stopped wanting to do things. At home I am a list-maker, a planner, someone who feels faintly guilty if I sit still for too long. Out there, with the cicadas humming and the pool water at that perfect temperature where you can just step straight in without the usual gasping dance, the doing of very little felt like the most productive thing imaginable. I finished two and a half books. I learned that I genuinely cannot tell the difference between a good olive oil and an excellent one, despite what the guidebooks claim. I discovered that I snore when I nap face-down on a sun lounger, a fact my other half documented with what I felt was unnecessary delight.

The mishaps continued in their small way. I dropped an entire plate of chorizo into the pool on day four, which the local cat found absolutely thrilling and I found less so. I got sunburned on the backs of my knees in that specific way that only happens when you've been reading too absorbedly to turn over. I tried to make paella on the outdoor grill and created something that was edible but spiritually wrong, which we ate anyway with more of that cheap white wine that tastes like holiday in a way expensive wine never quite manages.

By the end of the week I had a proper tan line from my swimming costume, a stack of finished paperbacks, and a newfound appreciation for the absolute luxury of waking up without knowing what day it is and not particularly caring. We packed those dreadful neon flip-flops with something approaching affection. The villa had done what the best holidays do: it had slowed everything down until I could notice things again, like the particular quality of light through pine needles or the way the pool looked at night when we were the only ones awake.

We locked up, said goodbye to the goat on our way out, and drove back to Valencia with the windows down and Spanish radio playing something catchy. I was already planning which book to start on the plane, already half-asleep in the passenger seat, already plotting when we might come back and do absolutely nothing all over again.