I had barely got the hire car off the ferry at Visby when the satnav decided to send me the scenic route through every tiny lane on Gotland. By the time I reached the little red cottage near Tofta I was already running late and rather frazzled, so when the key safe refused to open on the third attempt I gave it a hopeful thump and the whole thing popped open with an alarming clatter. A neighbour across the lane, an older chap in a flat cap, wandered over with a grin and said he had seen that trick work before, only usually on garden gates. Within minutes he had introduced himself as Lars and offered to show me where the best coffee was, which turned out to be his own kitchen table.

His wife, Inger, appeared with a plate of freshly baked cinnamon buns and asked if I had managed to upset the seagulls yet. Apparently they held a grudge against anyone who arrived after noon. I admitted I had not even unpacked, so she insisted on lending me an extra blanket in case the evening turned cool, and then promptly launched into a story about the time a guest had tried to barbecue on the tiny balcony and attracted every bird for miles. Lars chuckled and added that the real hazard was not the birds but the neighbour two doors down who played the accordion at odd hours.

By the time I finally carried my bag inside, the cottage already felt less like a holiday let and more like an annexe to their lives. Inger popped back later with a jar of cloudberry jam, explaining it was the last one from last summer and I might as well enjoy it before she made more. We ended up chatting on the little porch about everything from the best beach for an evening stroll to the correct way to pronounce the local dialect, which I promptly mangled to their great amusement.

Later that first evening I wandered down to the nearby stretch of sand, and who should I bump into but Lars again, this time walking his slightly arthritic spaniel. He waved me over to meet a couple who ran the small kiosk by the car park, both of whom seemed to know exactly which cottage I was staying in before I had even said hello. They offered me a taste of their home-made lingonberry cordial and asked whether I planned to join the impromptu sing-along they held most Friday nights. I said I might, provided I could remember the words, and they assured me nobody else could either.

Back at the cottage the light was beginning to fade and I sat with a mug of tea, reflecting that my carefully planned quiet arrival had turned into something far more sociable than I had expected. It struck me that perhaps the mishap with the key safe had been the best thing that could have happened; without it I might still have been politely nodding at strangers instead of being gently teased by new acquaintances who already felt like old friends.