You need less than you think. Linen that does not mind the salt, one good book, a swimsuit, and shoes you can kick off at the door. The rest, the sea provides. I have watched guests arrive with two cases and leave having worn the same three things, the ones that softened and creased and smelled faintly of pine by the end. That is the week working on you. The trick is to pack for the person you become here, not the one who left home in a hurry.
Consider what a day actually asks of you. In the morning, something loose and pale for the walk down to the water, while the light is still low and the sand is cool underfoot. By noon, less than that. In the evening, when the wind drops and the pines go quiet, a jumper you can pull over your shoulders and a longer sleeve against the salt cooling on your skin. Everything folds into itself. Nothing needs an iron. If a thing needs an iron, it does not belong in the case, and it does not belong to this stretch of coast.
Leave room, then, for what you cannot bring. The bread arrives warm each morning, and you will want to carry a little to the beach wrapped in a cloth. There are figs in season, and a bottle of something local that the housekeeper will chill without being asked. These are the things worth the weight, and they are already here, waiting. A suitcase packed to the seams has no space for the life you came for. Half-empty is not a failure of planning. It is an invitation.
And so you unpack in ten minutes and forget the case exists. The days lose their edges. You stop checking what you meant to wear and simply reach for whatever is nearest, dry, and clean enough. By the third day you will not remember what you left at home, and by the last you will wonder why you ever thought you needed it. Pack light. The sea has been doing this far longer than you have, and it knows exactly what a person requires.