I have never been so relieved to see a red wooden house in my life, and that includes the time I got lost in a Finnish forest looking for a sauna. The drive to Sturkoe from Karlskrona had been straightforward enough, or so I thought, until I confidently turned down what I was absolutely certain was the right lane and found myself at a dead end facing a very unimpressed-looking herd of cows. My phone, naturally, had chosen that exact moment to lose signal, leaving me to perform an awkward twelve-point turn while the cattle watched in silent judgment. Twenty minutes of backtracking later, I spotted the proper turning, marked by a weathered post that I am convinced was not there the first time.

The cottage sat among birch trees just back from the water, that particular shade of Falun red that makes every Swedish holiday photo look impossibly wholesome. My daughter immediately claimed the loft bedroom, which involved a ladder steep enough to qualify as a climbing wall, while my wife stood in the kitchen doorway wearing the expression she reserves for places that might actually have decent knives. The verdict came quickly: mismatched crockery, a coffee maker that looked older than me, and a view through the window straight down to the jetty where a rowing boat bobbed expectantly. She smiled. This was going to work.

I am not proud of how long I spent trying to unlock the wrong door. The key fit, after a fashion, and I wrestled with it for a good three minutes before realising I was at the back entrance to the woodshed. The actual front door was around the corner, clearly marked, and opened with embarrassing ease. I mention this only because it set the tone for our first evening, a gentle comedy of minor errors that felt exactly right for a place determined to slow us down whether we cooperated or not.

The jetty became our headquarters by default. I had grand plans for the rowing boat, visions of early morning fishing expeditions returning with supper, but the reality was rather more sedentary. We spent most of our first afternoon simply sitting there, passing a bag of crisps between us, watching the light change over the archipelago. My daughter attempted to fish with a borrowed rod and no bait, which she insisted was a legitimate technique she had read about online. The fish remained unconvinced.

What struck me most, perhaps because I am usually terrible at doing so, was how quickly the need to be elsewhere simply dissolved. There was a small beach a short walk away, rocky and Swedish and perfect for tentative swimming in water that made us gasp and laugh in equal measure. We found wild blueberries on a path behind the cottage, staining our fingers and arguing about whether we had picked enough for pancakes. We had not, but we made them anyway, supplemented with jam from the little supermarket in Karlskrona where I had also panic-bought mosquito coils and a bag of sweets shaped like cars.

By the third day I was measuring time by the light rather than my watch, a transformation so complete that I actually forgot what day of the week it was and had to check my phone with something approaching embarrassment. The cottage asked nothing of us except presence, and we gave it gladly, falling into rhythms of coffee and card games and walks that went nowhere in particular. I caught myself on the jetty one evening, feet dangling above water that had finally warmed enough for swimming, and felt something loosen in my chest that I had not realised was tight.

We left the key in the agreed place, took a final photograph of the red house against green trees, and drove away more slowly than we had arrived. I did not take the wrong turning this time, though I was tempted.