The trouble began, as it so often does, with me being absolutely convinced I knew better than the sat nav. We'd been driving up from Stockholm for the best part of four hours, the forests getting thicker and the light getting that particular silvery quality you only seem to find in Sweden, when I spotted what I decided was a shortcut. My partner, who has learned over fifteen years to recognise this particular tone in my voice, simply gripped the door handle and said nothing. Twenty minutes later we were bumping down a gravel track that grew progressively narrower, surrounded by pine trees and what I can only describe as an aggressive amount of nature, until we reached a dead end marked by a very small and extremely judgmental-looking goat.

By the time we actually found the proper turning for our holiday let in Mora, somewhere between Venjan and the main town, I had that particular combination of sheepishness and low blood sugar that makes me deeply unpleasant company. The cottage itself, a traditional wooden place painted that distinctive Falun red with white trim, sat in a clearing looking utterly peaceful and well-organised, which felt personally insulting given the state of the last hour. My partner went inside first. I heard her laugh, that particular laugh that means I am going to hear about something for years, and followed her in to discover that in my stressed state I had somehow managed to pack our entire food bag upside down in the boot. The eggs, which I had carefully selected that morning from a market in Stockholm's Ostermalm district, had achieved a kind of Jackson Pollock effect across most of our self-catering supplies. The loaf of proper sourdough was now wearing them like a particularly unappetising hat.

We stood in the immaculate little kitchen with its pine cupboards and its view of Lake Siljan in the distance, and I had one of those moments of clarity that only come after genuine foolishness. Here I was, desperate to cook proper Swedish meals in this perfectly equipped kitchen, and I had essentially created an omelette in a bag before even reaching the front door. My partner, who is genuinely kind when it matters, simply handed me the bin and suggested we treat this as a fresh start.

The cottage kitchen proved to be a genuine pleasure once I stopped sabotaging myself. The following morning we drove the short distance into Mora proper and found the local food shops and the smaller market stalls that set up near the centre. I bought proper Swedish potatoes, that particular variety they grow around here that taste somehow more potato-ish than any potato has a right to taste. We found smoked fish from the lake, and cloudberries in a jar that cost more than I care to admit but tasted like concentrated Nordic summer. I became slightly obsessed with finding the right kind of crispbread, standing in the ICA supermarket for an embarrassing length of time comparing packages while my partner browsed the cheese selection with more success.

Back at the cottage I attempted what I grandly called a Dalarna-inspired supper. The kitchen had everything I needed: good knives, proper pans, that sense of calm that comes from a well-designed space. I fried the smoked fish with butter and dill, boiled those extraordinary potatoes, and laid out the crispbread with cheese and the cloudberry jam. It was simple food, the kind that relies entirely on the quality of ingredients rather than any skill from the cook, which was fortunate given my track record that day. We ate on the little wooden deck as the light stretched out towards evening, that endless Swedish summer dusk that makes you lose track of time entirely.

I attempted pancakes the next morning, proper thin Swedish ones, and managed only to set off the smoke alarm briefly before getting the pan temperature right. My partner filmed this for posterity, naturally. By the third day I had settled into a rhythm of slow breakfasts with strong coffee and knackebrod, lunches assembled from market finds, and evening meals that grew gradually more ambitious. I made a stew with reindeer meat I found at a local butcher, cooked it far too long in my anxiety about doing it justice, and discovered that reindeer is forgiving in a way that eggs emphatically are not.

The kitchen at that cottage saw my worst travelling moment and then, gradually, some of my most contented cooking. I left with recipes scribbled on the back of a shopping receipt, a new appreciation for cloudberries, and a solemn promise to my partner that I would never again trust my own sense of direction over satellite navigation. She has this recorded, too. For evidence, apparently.