We set off for our little Visby cottage on Gotland with high hopes and a bag of snacks that lasted about twenty minutes. The ferry crossing was smooth enough, but the moment we stepped off in Visby I managed to drop the entire packet of crispbread onto the wet deck. By the time I had scooped up the soggy squares, our taxi was waiting and the driver gave me that polite Swedish look that says everything without a word. Ten minutes later we pulled up outside the cottage, a neat white house tucked just inside the old town wall, and the first thing I noticed was the smell of fresh bread drifting from the bakery two streets away.

After unpacking we wandered straight out to find lunch. The Saturday market near Stora Torget was in full swing, with stalls offering smoked herring, cloudberry jam and little tubs of dill-cured salmon. We bought a paper cone of hot potato cakes and ate them on a bench while watching cyclists rattle past on the cobbles. Back at the cottage the kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with pans and decent knives, so we decided to cook our own dinner. I had grand plans for a creamy mushroom pasta using local chanterelles from the market, yet somehow managed to over-salt the water and then forget to stir. The result was a slightly gluey bowl that still tasted surprisingly good once we added a heroic amount of butter and black pepper.

The next morning we returned to the same bakery for cardamom buns and coffee so strong it made my hands shake. We carried everything back to the little garden table behind the cottage and ate in companionable silence until a seagull tried to nick my bun. Later we popped into a tiny supermarket just inside the wall for milk, eggs and more herring, then spent an hour attempting to recreate a simple gravlax using a recipe scribbled on the back of our receipt. The salmon turned out edible if a bit too salty, and we laughed about it while scraping off the excess dill with a spoon.

By the third evening we had learned the rhythm of the neighbourhood shops. The fishmonger down the lane sold ready-marinated Baltic herring that needed nothing more than rye bread and a squeeze of lemon. We bought some for a late picnic on the living-room floor, spreading a blanket because the garden table was still damp from rain. Sitting there with our mismatched plates and a bottle of local cider, I realised how much of the holiday had already revolved around deciding what to eat next. It felt both comforting and faintly ridiculous, yet I could not remember the last time a trip had been shaped so completely by market stalls and kitchen experiments.