We set off for Fole on a sunny afternoon in a hire car that had seen better days, and within ten minutes of leaving Visby the sat nav decided the shortest route involved a dirt track that was really just a tractor path. By the time we bounced out the other end the car was coated in pale Gotland dust and my partner was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. When we finally pulled up at the little red cottage tucked behind a low stone wall, the first thing that greeted us was not the key safe but a neighbour called Lars waving a pair of secateurs and asking if we needed help with the roses.

Lars turned out to be the unofficial welcome committee for the lane. He introduced himself by his full name, then immediately shortened ours to something easier for him to remember, which is how my partner became “Anna-Britta” for the rest of the week. While we were still dragging bags from the boot, his wife Kerstin appeared with a basket of fresh strawberries and a story about the last guests who had tried to cycle to the nearest bakery and ended up in someone’s potato field. We stood there in the gravel, strawberries in hand, listening to how the local bakery only opens when the owner feels like it and how the best cinnamon buns appear without warning on the counter around ten.

A little later an older chap on a battered bicycle stopped to ask if we were the new arrivals. He didn’t give his name, just offered directions to the nearest beach in case we fancied a swim before supper. When we admitted we hadn’t brought towels yet he tutted gently and said his wife always kept spares for “hopeless mainlanders,” which made us both blush and laugh at the same time.

By evening we had met three more neighbours, each with their own gentle advice. One told us the best time to see the sheep in the field behind the house, another warned us about the midges near the stream, and a third simply handed over a jar of honey with the instruction to return it when empty. None of them stayed long, yet each conversation left us feeling less like tourists and more like temporary residents who had somehow passed an unspoken test.

Sitting on the wooden steps after they had all wandered off, I caught myself wondering how many other places still run on this easy, unhurried exchange of names and small favours. The cottage itself was lovely, but it was these quick chats on the lane that made the arrival feel less like checking into a holiday let and more like stepping into someone else’s summer routine for a while.