We set off from the ferry in Visby feeling rather pleased with ourselves, map in hand and a bag of cinnamon buns from the harbour kiosk. The drive to our little cottage just outside town was meant to be a doddle, yet somehow we managed to take the wrong turning twice and ended up circling the same red-painted farmhouse. By the time we pulled into the gravel drive our two children were giggling in the back and I was quietly wondering whether we should have packed a compass.

The cottage itself looked exactly like the photos, only better in the late afternoon light. White wooden walls, a neat little porch with two mismatched chairs, and a garden that sloped gently towards a low stone wall. Inside it felt instantly welcoming, the sort of place where you kick off your shoes without thinking. The kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with the essentials, and the living room had a wood burner already laid ready for cooler evenings. Upstairs the bedrooms were simple and cosy, with crisp white linen that smelled faintly of lavender.

After unpacking we wandered out to the garden with mugs of tea. The air was soft and carried the faint scent of pine and sea salt. The children found a rope swing tucked beneath an apple tree and spent the next half hour trying to outdo each other with increasingly dramatic launches. My partner and I sat on the porch steps, listening to their laughter and the occasional clink of a bicycle bell from the lane beyond. It felt wonderfully ordinary in the best possible way.

Later we strolled into Visby along a quiet footpath that skirted the old town wall. The evening light turned the limestone a soft honey colour and the streets were busy with families doing much the same as us, ambling without any particular plan. We bought ice creams from a small kiosk near the harbour and ate them on a bench overlooking the water, watching the last ferry of the day slide away towards the mainland. The children compared flavours and argued gently about who had the biggest scoop.

Back at the cottage the sun was low and the garden felt cooler. We lit the wood burner more for the crackle than the heat and ate a simple supper of pasta and salad on the kitchen table. Afterwards we played a card game that quickly descended into accusations of cheating, which only made everyone laugh harder. I found myself thinking how rarely we manage this sort of unhurried evening at home, where the biggest decision is whether to have another biscuit or call it a night.

As the children finally settled, I stepped outside for a moment. The sky was that deep northern blue that never quite goes fully dark in summer. Somewhere nearby a blackbird was still singing, and the faint sound of waves carried on the breeze. Standing there in the half-light I realised we had only been here a few hours, yet the place already felt like it belonged to us.