We set off from the ferry terminal in Visby with the sort of optimism that only comes after a long overnight crossing from the mainland. The children had finally stopped asking if we were nearly there, and I was feeling quietly pleased with myself for having printed the directions instead of relying on patchy signal. Then the satnav decided to send us down a narrow gravel track that ended at a farm gate with two very unimpressed sheep staring back at us. By the time we reversed out and found the right turning, we were both laughing and slightly sticky from the unexpected detour.

The house itself sat just outside the old town walls, a neat red wooden cottage with white trim and a small garden already dotted with late-summer flowers. The key was exactly where the instructions said it would be, under the flowerpot by the back step, and stepping inside felt like walking into someone’s well-loved home rather than a rental. There was a faint smell of woodsmoke from the little stove, even though it was still warm outside, and the kitchen table had been left with a handwritten note welcoming us and pointing out where the best coffee mugs lived.

We dropped our bags and wandered straight out again because the evening light was too good to waste. The short walk into Visby’s centre took us past rows of low stone walls and little gardens where people were still sitting out with glasses of wine. Inside the walls the cobbled streets were busy with families and couples, but nothing felt rushed. We found a bench near the cathedral and shared a bag of cinnamon buns we had bought from a bakery on the way, watching the last of the day’s tourists drift past.

Back at the cottage the garden felt surprisingly private once the gate clicked shut. There was a small wooden table and two mismatched chairs, and we sat there with a bottle of local cider while the children chased a ball around the grass. I caught myself thinking how rarely we manage to arrive somewhere and feel settled so quickly. Usually there is at least one small disaster with the wifi password or a missing teaspoon, but this time everything had simply worked. Even the sheep-induced detour now seemed like part of the story rather than a hassle.

Later, lying in bed with the window open, I could hear distant church bells and the occasional bicycle bell from the road. The linen sheets smelled faintly of lavender, and for once I did not reach for my phone to check emails. Instead I just listened to the quiet and thought about how a single wrong turn had somehow made the whole arrival feel more real. Sometimes the best first impressions are the ones you stumble into sideways, and this little red house already felt like it might become one of those memories we talk about for years.