We set off from Gothenburg in the late afternoon, the car packed with the usual too-many jumpers and not enough snacks, and by the time we reached Alvhaga the light had already started to fade. It was early October, that strange in-between week when the leaves are still bright but the air has turned properly sharp. I had the satnav on my phone and it cheerfully sent us down a narrow gravel track that ended in a ditch. We sat there for a minute, engine idling, both of us laughing because neither of us had thought to check the final hundred metres on the map. A neighbour in a pickup eventually towed us out with a rope and a cheerful wave, and that was how we arrived at the red wooden house by the lake.

The first thing that hit me was the smell of woodsmoke drifting from somewhere nearby. The house itself sat quietly among tall pines, the kind that keep their needles all year, and the low autumn sun was catching the water so that the surface looked almost metallic. We unlocked the door and stepped into a warm kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee left over from the last guests. Outside the windows the birches were already half bare, their pale trunks standing out against the darker firs, and I realised the season had already decided how we would spend the next few days. No long walks or ambitious swims, just short strolls before the light went and long evenings by the wood burner.

The mishap with the car had left us oddly relaxed. Instead of rushing to unpack we made tea and sat on the small deck, watching a pair of ducks glide past as if they owned the place. The garden sloped gently down to the water and a simple rowing boat was tied to a post, its oars still inside. I thought about taking it out the next morning but the wind had picked up and the surface of the lake was already showing small white caps. October does that here; it offers the view but keeps reminding you that summer is properly finished.

By the time we went to bed the temperature had dropped enough that we could see our breath on the way to the outside loo. We pulled every blanket from the cupboard and lay listening to the occasional creak of the old timber. I found myself thinking how different this trip would have felt in July, when the same house would probably have been full of families and the lake warm enough for a quick dip. Now it felt borrowed, as though we were borrowing someone else’s quiet season. The neighbour who had helped us earlier waved again when he drove past at dusk, and I waved back from the window, grateful that the small disaster had already introduced us to the place in a way a perfect arrival never could.