We set off from the ferry at Visby in high spirits, the sun already warm on the car roof and the promise of a proper slow week ahead. Then came the mishap: I confidently followed the satnav down what turned out to be a tractor track instead of the proper lane, and we ended up wedged between two hedges with the bumper brushing nettles. After a few minutes of gentle reversing and plenty of laughter, we found the right turning and rolled into Laerbro just as the afternoon light softened.

The house itself felt instantly welcoming. A low wooden building with pale walls and a generous veranda, it sat quietly among open fields with only the sound of birds and the occasional sheep in the distance. We dropped our bags inside, opened every window, and stepped straight back out again. There was simply no rush.

That first evening we did almost nothing at all. We sat on the veranda with mugs of tea and watched the light fade across the meadows. A neighbour waved as they cycled past, and we waved back without any need for conversation. Later we wandered a short way along the lane to a small shop for bread and milk, then returned to eat outside until the midges drove us in. The sky stayed light long after we expected it to.

The next few days slipped by in the same gentle rhythm. Mornings began with coffee on the steps while the grass still held dew. We read for hours without guilt, moving our chairs whenever the shade shifted. One afternoon we strolled into the village centre, barely ten minutes away, and found a bakery with fresh cinnamon buns still warm from the oven. We carried them back and ate them slowly, brushing crumbs onto the grass.

The weather stayed kind, so we stayed outside. I spent one whole morning on a blanket in the garden with nothing but a book and the occasional bee for company. My partner dozed in the hammock strung between two apple trees. We talked very little, which felt like the point. Every so often one of us would mention something small, the way the light caught the roof or how quiet it was without traffic, then we would both fall silent again.

By the third day I noticed how rarely I checked my phone. The signal was patchy anyway, and there was nothing urgent waiting. Instead I found myself noticing small things: the pattern of lichen on the fence, the way the breeze moved through the long grass, the distant church bell marking hours I no longer needed to count. It was the sort of stillness that sneaks up on you.

One evening we walked a little further to a quiet stretch of coast, the sea only a short drive from the house. We sat on driftwood and watched the water until the sun dropped. On the way back we stopped at a roadside stall selling strawberries and ate them straight from the punnet while driving, windows down.

Looking back, the tractor-track episode seems like the perfect start. It reminded me that plans often go slightly wrong, and that is usually when the real holiday begins. By the time we packed to leave, the house already felt familiar. We left the windows open one last time, let the curtains move in the breeze, and promised ourselves we would not wait so long before coming back to do very little again.