We set off from Gothenburg early, the car packed with snacks and that optimistic feeling you get when a break finally arrives. The drive down to Halland should have been straightforward, but I managed to miss the turning for Askloster and ended up on a narrow lane that grew narrower with every metre. When we finally reached the property, the satnav cheerfully announced we had arrived at a field. My partner laughed so hard she nearly spilled the coffee, and I had to reverse half a mile before spotting the discreet sign tucked behind some trees.

Once we parked, the first thing that struck me was the quiet. No traffic hum, just birds and the faint creak of the wooden gate as we pushed it open. The house itself looked exactly like the photos, only warmer in real life, with its pale wooden cladding and wide porch that caught the afternoon sun. We stepped inside and the smell of clean linen met us straight away. Someone had left a small bunch of wildflowers on the kitchen table, and that simple touch made the place feel instantly welcoming.

The living room opened straight onto the garden, and I found myself standing there for a good minute just watching the light move across the grass. It felt bigger than I had expected, yet still cosy enough that you could imagine curling up with a book when the evenings turned cool. A short path led down to a little stream at the bottom of the plot, and the sound of running water was already working its usual magic on my shoulders.

We unpacked slowly, stopping every few minutes to point out another thoughtful detail: mugs that actually matched, a proper corkscrew in the drawer, extra blankets folded neatly on the sofa. After the long drive, even these tiny things felt like luxuries. I caught myself wondering why it always takes leaving home to notice how rarely we slow down at home.

Later we strolled the short distance into Varberg for an early supper. The town felt calm and unhurried, with locals cycling past and the sea air mixing with the scent of frying fish from a nearby kiosk. We ate outdoors, watching families wander along the promenade, and by the time we wandered back the light had that soft golden quality that makes everything look slightly better than it did an hour earlier.

Back at the house the porch still held the warmth of the day. We sat outside with a glass of wine, listening to nothing in particular except the occasional rustle in the hedge. The mishap on the lane already felt like part of the story rather than a frustration, and I realised that arriving slightly wrong-footed had made the calm that followed feel even more welcome. Sometimes the best bits of a holiday begin with getting a little bit lost.