We set off from the ferry terminal in Visby after a rather long crossing from the mainland, and I was already dreaming of a quiet glass of wine on the balcony. The satnav had other ideas though. Just as we turned onto the final stretch towards the house, a rogue seagull decided my takeaway coffee was fair game and swooped straight through the open window, sending lukewarm latte flying across the dashboard and my best summer shirt. By the time we pulled up outside the little white cottage on the edge of Visby, I looked as though I had fought a small battle with a dairy product and lost.

Still, the moment we stepped through the gate the whole ridiculous episode faded away. The garden was a proper Swedish idyll, all neat gravel paths and lavender bushes buzzing with bees, and the wooden house itself felt instantly welcoming with its pale timber walls and cheerful red trim. Inside, everything was bright and uncluttered. Pale wooden floors led us through to a cosy living room where a couple of deep sofas faced a big window that framed the Baltic Sea like a living postcard. We stood there for a moment just taking it in, the gentle lap of waves audible even with the windows shut.

The kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with proper plates and a kettle that actually boiled in under a minute, which felt like luxury after hours on the road. We made fresh coffee, this time without any avian interference, and carried our mugs out onto the little terrace. From there we could see the old town walls rising in the distance, their grey stone softened by climbing roses, and the occasional church spire catching the late afternoon light. It was the sort of view that makes you slow down whether you meant to or not.

After unpacking we wandered the short distance into Visby itself, following the cobbled lanes past half-timbered houses and tiny art galleries. The mishap with the seagull had left me in a strangely good mood, as though the universe had declared that nothing else could possibly go wrong on this trip. We found a bench overlooking the harbour, shared a cinnamon bun that was still warm from the bakery, and watched the boats bob gently in the evening sun. Back at the cottage the air had cooled just enough for a light jumper, and we sat outside again until the sky turned that soft Nordic pink that never quite seems to happen anywhere else.

Lying in bed later, listening to the faint sound of the sea through the open window, I realised I had spent most of the day smiling at my own coffee-stained reflection in shop windows. It struck me that sometimes the best holidays begin with small disasters, because they make the calm that follows feel even more deliberate.