I had no idea a simple ferry crossing could turn into such a comedy of errors, but that is exactly how our arrival in Hudiksvall began. We had booked a cosy cottage just outside the town through Novasol and were feeling rather pleased with ourselves until the satnav decided we needed an impromptu tour of every back lane in Gavleborg. By the time we finally pulled up, the fridge was empty and my stomach was making noises loud enough to frighten the neighbour's cat.

First impressions of the place were lovely though. The wooden house sat among tall pines with a little deck that caught the evening light, and inside it was warm and simple with a proper kitchen that immediately made me think about cooking. After a quick unpack we headed straight into town to find something for supper, following the smell of grilled fish that drifted along the harbour. We ended up at a small waterside cafe where the menu was short and honest, just fresh herring with new potatoes and a dill sauce that tasted like summer. My partner ordered the elk burger and declared it the best thing since sliced bread, while I stuck with the fish and tried not to look too smug when it arrived steaming and perfect.

The next morning we wandered to the local market square, where stalls offered everything from cloudberry jam to smoked sausage. I bought far too much cheese and a loaf of dark rye that smelled faintly of molasses. Back at the cottage we decided to attempt a proper Swedish fry-up using our market haul, which sounded simple until I managed to set the smoke alarm off while frying the sausage. We spent ten minutes waving tea towels under the detector and laughing at our own incompetence, then ate the slightly charred results on the deck with mugs of strong coffee. It was not exactly Michelin-starred but it felt like a proper holiday meal.

By the second evening we had grown bolder and tried making kroppkakor, those potato dumplings filled with pork. The recipe on the packet looked straightforward enough, yet our first batch fell apart in the pan and the second batch stuck to everything except the plate. Still, once we rescued what we could and drowned them in lingonberry jam, they tasted surprisingly good. We ate them slowly, watching the light fade over the trees and reflecting on how little we usually cook at home. There is something about being away that makes you want to try, even when the smoke alarm joins in.

On our final morning we returned to the harbour cafe for one last herring breakfast before the long drive south. The same friendly woman behind the counter remembered our order and added an extra portion of potatoes without being asked. Sitting there with the sun on our faces, I realised that the best part of the trip had not been the scenery or the cottage itself, but these small, slightly messy meals that forced us to slow down and actually taste where we were.