I had barely turned off the main road towards Froejel when the first drops started, the sort of sudden Gotland rain that feels personal. We were meant to be there by four but the ferry from the mainland had been delayed, and then the satnav sent us down a gravel track that ended at a field of sheep. By the time we found the right turning the car was splattered with mud and my partner was laughing at the state of my jacket. We pulled up to the little red house just as the shower passed, and the evening light came out low and golden across the fields.

The owners had left the key in a metal box by the door with a note saying the heating was already on because the evenings were turning cool. Inside it smelled faintly of woodsmoke from the stove that had clearly been lit earlier in the day. We dropped our bags and opened the back door straight onto a small wooden deck with two chairs and a table that still had raindrops on it. Beyond the fence the meadows were already showing the first hints of autumn colour, pale yellow grass mixed with the last of the summer flowers.

We decided to walk into the village before it got properly dark. The lane was quiet except for a tractor somewhere in the distance and the odd call of a bird we couldn't name. A few houses had lights on already and smoke rising from their chimneys. We stopped at the small shop that was still open and bought bread, cheese and a bottle of local cider. The woman behind the counter asked if we were staying at the Froejel house and told us the blackberries along the path were worth picking if we had a container.

Back at the house we lit the stove properly and sat with the doors open while the temperature dropped. The fields outside looked different in the half-light, softer and somehow closer. We ate on the deck wrapped in jumpers, listening to nothing much except the occasional car on the distant road. It felt oddly peaceful to be somewhere so quiet after the rush of getting the ferry and finding the place.

Later I stood by the window with a cup of tea and watched the sky turn that deep blue it only does in early autumn here. The mishap with the satnav already seemed funny rather than annoying, the sort of small thing that happens when you're not quite sure where you're going. I realised I had been so focused on getting the timings right that I had forgotten how much the season itself changes everything, the light, the quiet, even the way the house felt lived-in rather than just rented. We had only just arrived and already the days ahead felt slower, shaped by the cooler evenings and the early dark rather than any plan we had made.