We set off from the ferry in Visby with the kids in the back singing at the tops of their voices, convinced the satnav would lead us straight to our little cottage near Tofta. It nearly did, until I confidently followed a gravel track that turned out to be someone's very private driveway. The farmer who appeared at the window looked less than impressed, and I spent a good five minutes apologising while the children dissolved into giggles in the back seat. By the time we finally pulled up outside the right place, the sun was already low and the air smelled of pine and sea salt.

The cottage itself sat quietly among the trees, painted that soft red you see all over Gotland. It looked exactly like the sort of place where nothing much happens except cups of tea and long walks. The key was in a little lockbox, and once inside we found a bright kitchen, a wood burner already laid, and a sofa that looked like it had hosted more board games than arguments. The children claimed the loft bedroom straight away, while my partner and I stood in the doorway grinning like we had just remembered what holidays are supposed to feel like.

We unpacked in that lazy way you only manage on the first afternoon, shoes kicked off, fridge stocked with bread and cheese from the little shop in Tofta. The garden had a simple wooden table and two mismatched chairs, perfect for the evening when the midges started their evening patrol. We ate outside anyway, watching the light change over the fields. Someone's dog barked in the distance, and it felt oddly comforting rather than intrusive.

Later, once the children were finally asleep, we wandered down the short path towards the sea. The beach at Tofta was quiet at that hour, just a few late swimmers and the sound of waves on the sand. We didn't stay long, just long enough to feel the evening chill and promise ourselves an early morning swim. Back at the cottage the wood burner crackled into life, and we sat with a bottle of wine that had travelled surprisingly well in the car.

I found myself thinking, as the flames settled, how easy it is to forget these small, ordinary evenings when you're rushing about at home. There was nothing fancy about the place, no dramatic views or clever design tricks, just a cottage that let you slow down without making a fuss about it. The farmer's driveway already felt like a story we would tell for years, and the cottage already felt like somewhere we might come back to, not because it offered anything spectacular, but because it offered so little and that turned out to be exactly what we needed.