I have never been brilliant at reading maps, which is how I ended up driving down what I can only describe as a tractor's daydream somewhere outside Karlshamn. The sat nav had given up on me three roundabouts ago, and there I was, bumping along a gravel track flanked by birch trees, convinced I was minutes from my destination. I was not. I was, in fact, rather lost, and the fuel gauge was making that face it makes when it wants a serious word.

Forty minutes, one slightly sheepish conversation with a man walking his dog, and a three-point turn that involved reversing into what I pray was just a very muddy puddle later, I finally found the proper road to the Asarum. The cottage sat at the end of a proper lane, red timber walls glowing in the afternoon sun, with a small deck facing out towards nothing but green and quiet. I stepped out of the car, stretched my legs, and immediately noticed the smell of pine and salt on the warm breeze. The mishap was forgiven. Almost.

The owners had left the key in a little wooden box with a note wishing me good weather. This was optimistic, as I had checked the forecast that morning and it had promised three days of solid sunshine. I had planned accordingly. Walking boots, light layers, a rucksack with water and a squashed sandwich. I was going to hike the coastal trails near Trensum and perhaps wander down towards the water at Matvik. Proper Blekinge territory, all granite outcrops and little inlets where the Baltic slips in between the rocks.

I woke the next morning to grey. Not dramatic grey, not storm grey, just a flat, stubborn sort of grey that suggested the sun had found better things to do. Still, it was warm, almost muggy, and I am British. We do not let a bit of cloud stop us. I set off for the coast path with optimistic speed.

The trail was lovely, even under dull skies. The archipelago here is all fractured coastline, little islands you can almost reach across to, and the path winds through oak and hazel before opening suddenly onto bare rock above the water. I walked for an hour, maybe two, warming up nicely, telling myself the cloud would burn off by lunch. It did not. Instead, it thickened, and I felt the first drop just as I was negotiating a particularly smooth stretch of granite that sloped towards the sea. I am not proud of what happened next. Let us just say that wet Swedish granite has roughly the same grip as wet British optimism, and I spent a moment in an undignified flail before catching myself on a sturdy juniper bush. The rain arrived properly then, warm but persistent, and I squelched back to the cottage with my pride and my left sock both thoroughly soaked.

Here is the thing, though. I dried off on that deck, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of tea, and watched the weather do its work across the trees. The warmth stayed, even as the rain came and went. And when it cleared, briefly, in that golden late-evening way it sometimes does, I walked again. Just down to the lane and back, nothing ambitious. The air smelled of wet earth and warmed pine resin, and the light on the wet leaves was better than any postcard.

The rest of the week continued in this fashion. Plans made, plans gently mocked by the sky, then plans remade around whatever the weather offered. I walked early mornings when it was cooler and clearer, sticking closer to the cottage, exploring the little paths through the woodland rather than committing to longer coastal routes. I found a small lake I had not known was there, and a clearing where someone had once kept bees. I walked slowly, which is not my usual way, and I noticed more because of it.

By the final day, the sun did return, properly and warmly, and I managed one longer stretch along the coast without incident or unexpected precipitation. It was beautiful, of course, all sparkling water and sharp shadows, but I think I preferred the damp, warm, unpredictable days. They had forced me to stop trying to make the holiday into something it was not, and simply be in it, whatever it turned out to be.

I left the key in the little wooden box, added my own note thanking them for the good wishes, and drove away without getting lost once. Small victories.