We had barely left the ferry at Visby when the satnav decided to send us the scenic route to our Hangvar place near Laerbro. Twenty minutes later we were bouncing along a gravel track with a paper bag of cinnamon buns balanced on my knee, and that was when the bag split. Buns everywhere, one rolling under the pedals, and me trying to fish it out while my partner shouted directions. We arrived laughing and slightly sticky, but the cottage looked perfect, a neat wooden house tucked behind a hedge with a little deck facing open fields.

First thing we did was unpack the cool bag and head straight for the kitchen. The fridge was empty apart from a welcome bottle of lingonberry squash, so we drove the short distance into Laerbro to see what the little supermarket had. We came back with fresh potatoes, a packet of local sausages, dill, and a tub of cream, already planning a proper fry-up for the first night. Back at the cottage the evening light was soft and golden, and we sat on the deck peeling potatoes while a neighbour's sheep watched us from the fence.

Cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen always feels like an adventure, and this one had a temperamental gas hob that needed a match. I managed to set the tea towel alight on the second attempt, which my partner found hilarious. Once the sausages were sizzling we tossed in sliced onions and a generous knob of butter, then finished the whole lot with a swirl of cream and plenty of dill. We ate it straight from the pan with thick slices of rye bread from the shop, and it tasted better than anything we had planned.

The next morning we woke to birdsong and decided to try a proper Swedish breakfast. We had stocked up on filmjolk, fresh berries, and that dense dark bread again, so we laid everything out on the wooden table outside. Halfway through the meal a gust of wind sent a carton of milk skidding across the deck, and we spent the next five minutes chasing it while trying not to laugh too loudly at seven in the morning. It was one of those small disasters that somehow make the coffee taste better.

By midday we were back in Laerbro, this time for the weekly market stall that sets up near the church. We bought smoked mackerel, a jar of pickled herring, and a small wheel of local cheese that the seller swore was best with cloudberry jam. Carrying our paper bags back to the car, we already had plans for a lazy lunch of open sandwiches on the deck. Later we tried to recreate a version of the mackerel dish we had tasted, frying it gently with butter and lemon, though I overdid the salt and had to scrape half of it off again.

Evenings at the cottage settled into a gentle rhythm of chopping, stirring, and tasting. One night we attempted potato dumplings with bacon, following a scribbled recipe the owner had left in a drawer. They came out slightly lopsided but tasted comforting after a long walk along the nearby lanes. We ate them with a jar of redcurrant sauce we had found at the market, and I caught myself thinking how rarely we cook this slowly at home.

By the third day the mishaps had become part of the charm. A dropped egg on the kitchen floor, a slightly burnt batch of pancakes, and the constant hunt for the right pan lid all added up to a holiday that felt lived-in rather than polished. Sitting on the deck with a final cup of coffee, watching the light fade over the fields, I realised the best part of the trip was not the perfect meals but the ordinary ones we had made ourselves, complete with small disasters and all.