We'd only just arrived on Gotland when the first thing that went wrong was my attempt to follow the sat nav into Aminne. I took a left too early, bumped the hire car over a sandy verge and ended up nose to tail with a flock of sheep that clearly thought they owned the lane. By the time we reversed out and found the right turning, the sun was already low and we were both starving. The little red wooden house sat just back from the quiet road, its garden full of tall grass and a couple of mismatched deckchairs. We dragged our bags inside, flicked on the kitchen light and immediately began unpacking the food we'd bought on the ferry, because the cupboards were empty and we hadn't the patience to go hunting for a restaurant on our first night.

The kitchen itself was small but workable, with a two-ring hob, a decent fridge and a single shelf of mismatched plates. We decided to keep things simple and fry up the fresh herring we'd wrapped in newspaper at the little stall near the harbour. I managed to burn the first batch because I was too busy chatting about how clean the air smelled after the boat crossing, so the second lot went in with far less oil and a good pinch of dill we found growing by the back step. We ate it straight from the pan with new potatoes boiled in their skins and a tub of sour cream that was already half gone by the time we sat down. Outside the window we could hear the occasional car passing, but mostly it was just birds and the faint sound of waves further down the track.

Next morning we wandered into the nearest village shop, which turned out to be more of a combined post office and bakery. The queue moved slowly because everyone seemed to know each other, and we ended up leaving with a paper bag of cardamom buns still warm from the oven and a wedge of local cheese that the woman behind the counter sliced for us without being asked. Back at the house we made open sandwiches on rye bread, spreading the cheese thick and topping it with cucumber slices from the garden of the house next door, whose owner had waved us over and offered a few when she saw us looking. It felt oddly generous for people we'd only just met.

By the third evening we were determined to cook properly, so we tried making a simple stew with root vegetables and a bit of smoked pork we'd bought at the Thursday market in the square. The market itself was tiny, just a handful of stalls under striped awnings, but the produce was fresh and the banter between stallholders kept us entertained while we queued. Back in our kitchen the stew bubbled away nicely until I got distracted checking the ferry times on my phone and let the bottom catch. We scraped off the worst of it and ate the rest anyway, sitting on the steps with bowls balanced on our knees because the indoor table was covered in maps and ferry leaflets. It wasn't perfect, but the flavour was still there once you got past the slightly charred bits.

What surprised me most, looking back, was how quickly those small cooking disasters became the part of the trip I remembered clearest. The sheep, the burnt herring, the stew that stuck, they all felt like they belonged to the same gentle rhythm of the place, where meals stretched into conversations and nothing needed to be rushed. By the end of the week we'd stopped worrying about getting things exactly right and just enjoyed whatever ended up on the plate.