The SatNav had been insisting we were nearly there for the better part of forty minutes, which in SatNav logic apparently means "enjoy this unplanned tour of Swedish woodland." My husband Dave, ever the optimist, declared it a scenic route. Our two children, strapped in the back and surviving on a dwindling supply of crisps, were less convinced. Then came the mishap. In my enthusiasm to spot lake glimpses through the trees, I knocked my travel mug clean off the dashboard. Lukewarm coffee everywhere. On my jeans, on the map, on Dave's supposedly waterproof jacket. The children found this hilarious. Dave found it less so, particularly when the mug rolled under his brake pedal.

We finally spotted the sign for Mora and, shortly after, the turning for our holiday let. The property sat back from a quiet lane, a proper Swedish cottage with that distinctive Falun red paint and white trim that makes everything look faintly like a Christmas decoration. I stepped out of the car still smelling of cheap motorway coffee, stretching legs that had forgotten what walking felt like.

The key was where promised, in a little lockbox that required the dexterity of a safecracker and the patience of a saint. Dave took charge, muttering about British engineering superiority, while I wandered down to peer at the lake. Even in late afternoon light with my caffeinated trousers clinging unpleasantly, it was properly lovely. The water stretched calm and grey-green, bordered by pines that looked like they'd been standing there since before anyone thought of SatNavs. A small wooden jetty jutted out, slightly weathered, entirely inviting.

The children had already discovered the garden, or more specifically the grassy slope that apparently functioned as an impromptu slide. Their shrieks carried across the water. I should have called them back, worried about grass stains or twisted ankles. I didn't. Something about that view, that particular quality of Scandinavian light, made ordinary parental anxiety feel temporarily unnecessary.

Inside, the cottage delivered on every hopeful expectation. Wooden floors that creaked in friendly greeting, a kitchen that managed to be both compact and genuinely equipped for actual cooking rather than holiday-home tokenism. The sitting room had a wood-burning stove that I immediately decided we would use that evening, practicalities be damned. Upstairs, bedrooms with sloped ceilings and windows that framed nothing but trees and distant water. The children bagged the room with bunk beds before any democratic process could occur.

I stood in the kitchen making tea with the supplies we'd grabbed from a supermarket in Mora proper, watching Dave attempt to unpack the car with what he considered efficient organisation. He was failing. The coffee mug incident had apparently affected his spatial reasoning. But the tea was good, strong and properly hot, and through the window I could see our daughter attempting to teach our son something involving pine cones and elaborate rules.

That first evening, we walked down to the jetty as the light softened. The children threw stones with the solemn concentration this activity always demands. Dave and I sat on weathered planks, not saying much, still in that transitional space between journey and arrival. My trousers had dried to an acceptable standard. The coffee smell had faded, or perhaps I'd simply adjusted.

I thought about how we'd planned this trip during a grey February, craving exactly this: uncomplicated space, water to look at, a fire to sit beside. The mishaps of getting here already felt like necessary preamble, the slightly ridiculous price of admission. The cottage didn't demand anything of us except presence. No itinerary, no must-see attractions within desperate driving distance, just the gradual unwinding that comes from realising you have several days of very little planned.

The stove got lit. Someone produced cards. The children, miraculously, went to bed without the usual negotiations. I sat with my tea, feet up, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of a Swedish evening. The SatNav sat dark and unrepentant in the car. Tomorrow, perhaps, we might walk to the nearby village or simply linger by the water. The coffee mug sat drying on the draining board, slightly dented, entirely serviceable. Some things, I reflected, improve for being a bit battered.