I had barely stepped off the ferry in Visby when the first thing went wrong. My phone map decided it was a good moment to freeze, leaving me standing on the quayside with two heavy bags and no clear idea which bus would take me toward Roma Kloster Guldrupe. A kind local pointed me in the right direction, but by the time I reached the quiet cluster of farm buildings the sun was already low and my stomach was loudly reminding me that lunch had been hours ago.

The cottage itself was simple and welcoming, a whitewashed house with a small garden where a few plastic chairs sat around a wooden table. I dropped my bags, opened every cupboard in the kitchen, and felt immediate relief at the sight of proper pans, sharp knives, and a decent sized fridge. After a quick wash I headed straight back out to find something for supper.

A short drive brought me to a roadside stall selling fresh strawberries and new potatoes. The woman behind the counter spoke a little English and seemed amused by my eagerness to buy half her stock. Back at the cottage I boiled the potatoes, sliced some sausage I had picked up in Visby, and fried everything together with a knob of butter. It was hardly fine dining, yet sitting outside as the light faded I felt ridiculously pleased with myself.

The next morning I woke early and decided to try the local bakery in Roma. Their cardamom buns were still warm when I carried them back, and I ate two before I had even unpacked the coffee. Later I drove to a small farm shop that stocked smoked lamb and a local cheese wrapped in wax. I bought far too much, telling myself it was all for cooking experiments, though the cheese barely lasted the afternoon.

By the third day I had grown ambitious. I tried to recreate a simple pasta dish using cream, dill, and some tiny shrimps from the fish counter in Visby market. The sauce split twice and the pasta stuck together in one large clump, yet after a bit of stirring and a generous sprinkle of cheese it tasted surprisingly good. I ate it at the garden table while a neighbour's cat watched from the fence, clearly hoping for leftovers.

What struck me most was how the rhythm of the days began to revolve around these small food rituals. Mornings meant fresh bread and quiet coffee on the step, afternoons meant planning what to cook with whatever looked best at the stalls. I caught myself lingering over recipe ideas on my phone instead of checking emails, and it felt oddly freeing.

Even the failed pasta night became part of the charm. There is something quietly satisfying about standing in an unfamiliar kitchen, making small mistakes, and still ending up with a warm plate of food while the Gotland evening settles around you. By the time I packed to leave I had already started a mental list of what I would buy on my next visit.