We had barely made it off the ferry at Visby before the first small disaster struck. I had been so pleased with myself for printing the directions, only to realise halfway up the hill that the satnav on my phone had decided to send us down a cobbled lane far too narrow for anything with four wheels. My partner had to reverse out while a cheerful local on a bicycle gave us an encouraging thumbs-up, which somehow made the whole thing funnier rather than embarrassing.

By the time we reached the little red house tucked behind a low stone wall, the mishap already felt like part of the holiday. The place was simple and bright, with a wooden deck that caught the afternoon sun just right. We dumped our bags, opened every window, and promptly forgot about unpacking. Instead we carried two mismatched mugs of tea outside and sat there for what turned into hours, watching shadows slide across the grass.

That set the tone for the days that followed. We had come with vague ideas of cycling along the coast and visiting a few sights, yet each morning the sunshine seemed to argue against any strenuous plans. After breakfast we would drift into the garden with books, only to find ourselves still there at lunchtime, occasionally glancing up when a bumblebee drifted past. The occasional walk into Visby itself felt like enough adventure, wandering narrow streets lined with old warehouses and stopping for coffee when the mood took us.

One afternoon we wandered down to the little harbour nearby, bought fresh buns from a bakery, and ate them sitting on a bench overlooking the water. We talked about nothing in particular, the way you only do when there is genuinely nothing that needs doing. Back at the house the deck became our main headquarters again, the same two mugs making regular appearances alongside whatever novel I was failing to finish.

It is easy to feel slightly guilty about doing so little, especially when you have travelled somewhere new. I caught myself wondering whether we should be ticking off more activities, but the guilt never lasted long once the sun moved across the deck and another quiet hour slipped by. There is something about Gotland light that makes rushing feel pointless. Even the occasional gentle stroll along the nearby lanes felt like plenty, the old stone walls and wildflowers enough to look at without needing a destination.

By the end of the week the mishap on arrival had become a running joke between us, the story improving slightly each time we told it. What stayed with me most, though, was how little we had needed beyond that sunny deck and the slow rhythm of ordinary days. Sometimes the best part of a holiday is remembering how good it feels to stop.