We set off from Visby on a bright morning with nothing but a crumpled printout of directions and far too much faith in the sat nav. Somewhere near the turn for Slite we took a wrong lane and ended up on a gravel track that narrowed into someone’s driveway. The car stalled right in front of a startled sheep, which gave us both a long, judgemental stare before ambling off. By the time we reversed out and found the right turning, we were already laughing at ourselves and wondering whether the place would even live up to the photos.

The Boge/Slite cottage sat at the end of a quiet lane bordered by low stone walls and wild roses. It was smaller than I’d pictured, but the moment we stepped inside the smell of sun-warmed pine took over. The owners had left a note suggesting we try the footpath behind the garden that supposedly led to a little cove. We decided to follow it straight away, still dusty from the drive and keen to stretch our legs.

The path wound through tall grass and patches of juniper before dropping down to a stretch of shingle we hadn’t seen on any map. No one else was there, just a few gulls and the gentle slap of water against the stones. We sat on a driftwood log and shared the cinnamon buns we’d bought in town, watching a heron pick its way along the shallows. It felt like the sort of spot you only find when you stop trying to follow instructions.

Later that afternoon we wandered back along the lane and noticed a half-hidden sign for a tiny farm shop. The woman behind the counter seemed surprised to see customers; she sold us a jar of cloudberry jam and pointed us toward a meadow path that locals apparently use as a shortcut to the next bay. We got properly lost again, emerging instead at an old boathouse where someone had left a pair of oars leaning against the wall. We didn’t take them, of course, but the quiet felt like a secret we’d been handed by accident.

By evening we were back at the cottage, feet sandy and shoulders pink from the sun we hadn’t planned to catch. I poured two glasses of the local cider we’d found in the fridge and sat on the little deck while my partner attempted to light the barbecue with matches that kept blowing out. Watching him crouch there, muttering at the wind, I realised how rarely we actually slow down like this. The wrong turn on the way in had set the tone for everything since: no grand plans, just whatever turned up when we stopped rushing. It wasn’t the holiday we’d meant to have, but it already felt like the one we needed.