I have never been brilliant at reading maps, which is a polite way of saying I once spent twenty minutes trying to fold one in a gusty car park near Dover. So it will not surprise you that my journey to Karlskrona in Blekinge began with me confidently marching through the wrong door at Copenhagen Airport and finding myself in a staff canteen, clutching my rucksack and a very strong coffee, while three uniformed gentlemen looked on with the patient sympathy of people who have seen this exact scene a hundred times before.

The train from Copenhagen to Karlskrona is rather lovely once you are actually on it, gliding across the Oresund Bridge with the water sparkling beneath you like someone had scattered broken glass about for effect. I had packed for walking, you see. Proper coastal walking. The sort where you stride along rocky outcrops with the wind in your hair and perhaps spot a seal looking judgemental. My rucksack contained three maps, two compasses, and a pair of boots I had resoled specially. I was, in short, prepared for a Nordic walking adventure of considerable ambition.

The property itself sits on Trosso, one of the islands that make up Karlskrona's peculiar geography, and I found it after only one additional wrong turn involving a charming but deeply unhelpful cat. The cottage is one of those traditional Swedish wooden affairs, painted that particular shade of red that makes you feel instantly cheerful and slightly underdressed. I dumped my bags, laced my boots with theatrical determination, and set off for what I had planned as a hearty eight-mile coastal circuit.

The weather had other ideas.

Blekinge in summer is apparently not a place that respects itinerary. I had checked the forecast that morning, which showed a reassuring row of little sun symbols. What I got, within forty minutes of setting out, was a warm drizzle that felt less like rain and more like standing in a very lightly pressurised steam room. The temperature hovered around eighteen degrees, which sounds pleasant enough until you are wearing a waterproof jacket that has apparently decided to become a waterproof sauna.

I pressed on along the coastal path towards Drags, because I am stubborn and because I had packed those resoled boots. The archipelago here is all granite and pine, with the sea slipping between islands in narrow channels that catch the light in sudden, surprising ways. Even in the damp, it was proper handsome. The path wound through low scrub and occasional clearings where the rock had been worn smooth by glaciers and Norwegian feet, presumably, given how many of my fellow walkers greeted me with a friendly "hei" before realising I was a lost Englishman with a leaking jacket.

By hour two, the warm drizzle had graduated to warm proper rain. I found shelter under a granite overhang near a small cove, sharing the space with a family of ducks who seemed to feel I had invaded their conference room. There I sat, watching the water turn from grey to silver as the clouds shifted, and had one of those moments of gentle self-reflection that holidays seem to engineer. I had planned this grand walking adventure, you see. I had researched distances and elevations and packed energy bars I now could not be bothered to unwrap. And here I was, damp and slightly ridiculous, watching ducks argue about something, and feeling absolutely marvellous about it.

The rain softened eventually, and I walked back along a lower path through the woods, where the warmth had brought out that particular scent of pine and wet earth that makes you want to bottle it and sell it to stressed Londoners. I passed a swimming spot near Wachtmeister Gata, where a few hardy locals were actually in the water, looking pleased with themselves in that understated Swedish way. I waved. They waved back, perhaps sensing a fellow fool.

That evening, back at the cottage, I dried my boots on the veranda and ate something simple from the local shop. The weather had changed my plans entirely, and I had walked perhaps half what I intended, on easier paths, with more stopping. It was, I realised, exactly the walk I had actually needed. Some adventures, I suppose, are not the ones you prepare for. They are the ones that happen while you are standing under a rock with ducks, wondering where you packed your dry socks.