We set off for our little Visby cottage in Gotland with high hopes and a very full picnic basket, but the journey took an unexpected turn when I managed to spill an entire carton of oat milk across the car seat just outside the ferry terminal. By the time we reached the property the stain had dried into an awkward crust and the car smelled faintly of warm porridge, yet the moment we stepped inside everything felt instantly calmer. The kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with decent pans and a sturdy little table that looked ready for proper meals, so we unpacked our slightly battered supplies and decided the first order of business was supper.

That evening we wandered into Visby’s old town just a short stroll away and found a cosy restaurant serving herring three ways with new potatoes and dill. The portions were generous and the pickled version made my mouth pucker in the best way, though my partner still claims I overdid the crispbread. The next morning we headed straight to the local market square where stalls offered fresh strawberries, smoked cheese and crusty loaves still warm from the oven. We bought far too much and ended up back at the cottage trying to fit everything into the fridge while laughing at how the oat-milk incident now seemed like the least of our worries.

Self-catering turned out to be both the highlight and the comedy of the trip. One afternoon I decided to attempt a simple pasta with local chanterelles and cream, only to discover I had forgotten to buy actual pasta and had to improvise with the leftover crispbread crumbled on top. It tasted surprisingly decent once we added plenty of butter and black pepper, and we ate it on the little patio while watching the evening light catch the old town walls. Another night we grilled some fresh mackerel we had picked up from a fisherman’s stall near the harbour, though I managed to overcook the first batch and had to hide the charred pieces under a generous salad. Still, sitting outside with a glass of local cider and the smell of herbs from the garden made the small disasters feel almost charming.

By the third day we had fallen into a gentle rhythm of market visits in the morning and relaxed cooking experiments in the afternoon. The cottage fridge was soon crammed with jars of pickled vegetables and half-eaten cheeses, and every meal seemed to carry a story about something that had gone slightly wrong yet turned out fine. I found myself reflecting on how easy it is to get caught up in perfect plans, when really the best memories often come from the slightly messy ones like that oat-milk spill or the crispbread pasta. In the end it was the simple pleasure of eating well in a beautiful corner of Gotland that made the whole stay feel special, and I already know we will be back for another round of market treasures and kitchen mishaps.