I have never been so pleased to see a composting toilet in all my life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey to Blekinge had been one of those classic family road trips where everyone starts full of beans and ends up slightly feral. We rolled off the ferry at Karlskrona with the kids still arguing about whose turn it was on the tablet, then promptly got ourselves lost in the sort of Swedish woodland that makes you wonder if you have accidentally driven into a fairy tale. The sat nav gave up entirely somewhere near Ronneby, which is how we found ourselves down a gravel track, staring at what appeared to be a private fishing jetty and a very territorial goose.

My husband, ever the optimist, declared we were "almost certainly close." Twenty minutes later, with the goose now following the car in what felt like a deeply personal vendetta, I spotted a hand-painted sign for the holiday homes. We had arrived at the Ronneby archipelago, technically speaking, though our actual cottage was still proving rather elusive.

The mishap came when I confidently marched up to the wrong cabin, key code at the ready, and nearly let myself into what was clearly someone's permanent residence. A very polite Swedish gentleman appeared at the window and simply pointed further down the track, no words necessary. I have thought about that moment more than I care to admit. There is something uniquely humbling about being silently redirected by a man in his socks.

Our actual cottage sat right on the water's edge, a proper red wooden affair with white trim that looked like it had been waiting for us. The children bolted straight past me to investigate the rocky shoreline, leaving me to wrestle with the key box. Inside, everything smelled of pine and salt air, which I realise sounds like a scented candle but was genuinely lovely. The kitchen was compact in that practical Scandinavian way, the sort of space that makes you want to immediately boil the kettle and plan a trip to the local shop for proper supplies.

I stood on the little wooden deck with my tea going cold and watched a family of ducks paddle past like they owned the place. The archipelago here is not dramatic in the way of Norwegian fjords or Scottish lochs. It is softer, all granite and pine trees and little islands you could almost swim to if you were feeling brave and slightly foolish. The water was that particular Baltic grey-green that changes with every cloud.

What struck me most was the quiet. Not silence exactly, because there was birdsong and the occasional putter of a small boat, but the absence of that constant background hum you forget you are carrying around. My shoulders actually dropped. I caught myself thinking about work emails and deliberately turned my phone face down on the table. The children were already filthy from rock-pooling, which felt like the correct state of affairs.

That first evening, we walked the nearby coastal path as the light stretched out in that endless Nordic way. We found wild blueberries and ate them straight from the bush, which felt terribly wholesome until my daughter announced she needed the loo and we discovered the joys of that composting toilet I mentioned. Reader, I have never seen a child so fascinated by a toilet. We heard about it for days.

Back at the cottage, we cooked simple food and ate outside until the midges politely suggested we move in. Sitting there with my wine and my slightly sunburned nose, I felt that particular holiday feeling where you stop performing relaxation and actually start feeling it. The wrong cabin, the lost sat nav, the territorial goose, it all felt like part of the story now rather than the stress of it.

I think that is what these cottage holidays do best. They do not dazzle you. They slowly convince you that this pace, this simpler thing, is enough.