We set off from the ferry in Visby with the kind of optimism that only comes after a smooth crossing and a quick taxi ride to our little Visby cottage. The house sat just outside the old town walls, all white wood and tidy garden, and I was already picturing lazy breakfasts on the patio when a sudden gust caught the gate and slammed it straight into my shin. Nothing serious, just enough to make me hop about like a startled heron while my partner tried not to laugh.

That small stumble somehow set the tone for the next few days. The forecast had promised steady sun, so we laced up our walking shoes straight after unpacking and headed for the coastal path that runs north from Visby harbour. The trail hugs low cliffs and winds through meadows dotted with buttercups, the Baltic glittering on our left and the occasional sheep giving us the eye from the other side of the fence. We had planned a gentle five-kilometre stroll to the old lighthouse and back, but the weather had other ideas.

By the time we reached the halfway point the sky had turned a moody grey and a sharp breeze whipped up from the sea. We ducked into a sheltered dip in the rocks, shared a slightly squashed sandwich, and watched the first fat drops hit the path. Rather than push on and risk a proper soaking we turned back, taking a slower route through the pine woods that line the shore. The rain never really arrived in force, just enough to cool the air and bring out the scent of warm resin. It felt oddly refreshing after the earlier heat.

Back at the cottage we dried our socks on the little radiator and made tea on the tiny stove. I found myself thinking how often I charge into a new place with a rigid list of sights, only to have the simplest change of plan turn into the nicest memory. The mishap with the gate had already reminded me that nothing ever goes exactly to script, and the sudden shift in weather simply underlined the point.

The next morning the sun returned, so we tried the southern stretch of the same coastal path. This time we carried light rain jackets just in case, and the precaution paid off when a brief shower caught us near a little wooden jetty. We waited it out under a stand of birches, listening to drops patter on the leaves while gulls wheeled overhead. When the clouds cleared we continued along the boardwalk that skirts the beach, stopping now and then to watch families paddling in the shallows.

By the end of that walk my legs felt pleasantly tired and my earlier over-planning felt faintly ridiculous. The cottage garden offered the perfect spot to sit with a cold drink and watch the light fade over the rooftops of Visby. I caught myself smiling at the memory of the gate swinging into my leg; it seemed like a small, silly welcome from a place that clearly preferred gentle surprises over strict schedules.