I have never been so relieved to see a red wooden house in my life. After six hours of driving from Stockholm, a wrong turn that took us through what I am fairly certain was someone's private farm, and one spectacularly ill-advised attempt to follow a "shortcut" on a gravel track barely wide enough for a determined badger, we finally rolled up to our Runn Falun in Dalarna. I was convinced my partner was about to feed me to the nearest moose.

The mishap, if you want to call it that, happened about twenty minutes from the property. We spotted a sign for Runn and decided, in that peculiar holiday hubris that affects otherwise sensible people, that we knew better than the sat nav. The track grew narrower, then bumpier, then actively hostile. At one point we encountered a sheep that looked at us with such profound disappointment that I still think about it sometimes. We had to reverse nearly half a mile to find a spot wide enough to turn around. My partner maintained a dignified silence. I laughed in that slightly hysterical way that suggests I might cry instead.

But then we arrived, and honestly, the whole ridiculous journey felt worth it immediately. The house sat there in typical Dalarna fashion, red with white trim, looking as though it had grown straight out of the landscape rather than been built into it. The late afternoon sun caught the water of Lake Runn just beyond, and I could already see the walking trails threading through the trees along the shore. We had planned this trip around warm-weather hiking, packing light layers and sturdy boots, fully intending to spend our days exploring the coastal paths and forest tracks that wind through this part of central Sweden.

Our first morning, we set off with almost embarrassing enthusiasm. The trail along the eastern shore of the lake was everything we had hoped for, pine-scented and dappled with sunlight, the water glinting through gaps in the trees. We walked for perhaps two hours, pointing out wildflowers we could not name and debating whether a particular bird was a chaffinch or something more exotic. It was perfect. It was, in retrospect, too perfect.

Because Dalarna weather, as we were about to learn, has a sense of humour that matches my own. Dark clouds appeared from nowhere, the temperature dropped about ten degrees in as many minutes, and what had been a pleasant warm breeze turned into something that felt personally vindictive. We were still two miles from the house, wearing thin walking trousers and optimistic expressions. The rain started, then escalated, then achieved what I can only describe as a sustained atmospheric grudge.

We arrived back soaked, shivering, and utterly ridiculous-looking. My partner's hair had achieved a shape I did not think physics allowed. I had managed to step in a puddle that I swear was not there a moment before. We stood in the hallway of that lovely red house, dripping on the floorboards, and I started laughing. Proper, helpless, slightly unhinged laughter. My partner joined in eventually, though I suspect that was partly hypothermia.

The thing is, that moment changed the whole trip. We had come with this fixed idea of what our warm-weather adventure would look like, all sunshine and easy strolls and perhaps a dignified picnic. Instead, we spent the next few days becoming surprisingly competent at reading weather patterns, packing actual waterproofs, and discovering that walking in changeable conditions has its own particular satisfaction. We learned to set out early when the forecasts looked promising, to turn back without that stubborn British need to push on regardless, and to appreciate the moments of sudden warmth when the sun broke through and the whole landscape seemed to exhale.

One afternoon, after a morning of proper rain, we walked a northern stretch of shore trail and found the forest steaming slightly in the returning heat, the light falling through wet leaves in that particular golden way that makes you feel briefly like you are in a painting. We sat on a rock, slightly damp still, and watched a family of ducks paddle past with that purposeful waterfowl attitude that suggests they have somewhere important to be.

I think what I am trying to say is that I arrived at our Runn Falun expecting one kind of holiday and found another entirely. The wrong turn and the sheep and the soaking rain were not interruptions to the experience but became the experience itself, in that way that travel sometimes surprises you. We walked miles of those Dalarna trails, warm days and cool ones, dry and decidedly not dry, and by the end I could not really tell you which walks I enjoyed more. Though I will say this: the evening after our drenching, we sat in the house with the heating on, drinking tea and eating something from the local shop that involved an irresponsible amount of cheese, and I felt a contentment so complete that it almost frightened me.

We left eventually, as one must. The drive back to Stockholm was uneventful, no wrong turns, no disappointed livestock. But I kept looking at the map, at the squiggle of Lake Runn and the trails around it, already half-planning when we might return. Probably in summer. Probably with better waterproofs. Probably still managing to get slightly lost, because apparently that is simply who I am on holiday. I would not have it any other way.