We set off for Fegen in the family Volvo with the usual mix of snacks and over-optimism, convinced we would be there in plenty of time. The sat-nav took us down a narrow track lined with pine trees and the occasional red-painted barn, which felt wonderfully remote until we reached a wooden gate marked only with a small number. I hopped out to open it, left the car in neutral, and watched in slow-motion horror as it rolled gently into a muddy ditch. My partner and the kids found this hilarious; I did not, at least not straight away. After a bit of pushing and laughing we were back on track, shoes caked in Halland soil and already feeling more relaxed than when we had left home.

The cottage itself sat just outside the village, a simple timber building with a green metal roof and a porch that looked straight onto a small lawn sloping towards the lake. The key was in a lock-box by the door, and the first thing that struck me was how quiet it was once the engine stopped. Inside, everything felt homely rather than fancy: a pine table big enough for board games, a wood-burner already laid with kindling, and a kitchen stocked with the basics we had ordered ahead. The children immediately claimed the loft bedroom with its low ceiling and slanted windows, while we took the room downstairs that opened onto the deck.

We spent that first afternoon doing very little. The lake was only a short walk through the trees, and we wandered down with a thermos of coffee and a packet of biscuits. The water was still enough to show perfect reflections of the birches on the far shore, and a couple of rowing boats were tied up at a neighbouring jetty. My youngest spent ages trying to skim stones while the rest of us sat on a log and watched a heron take off. It felt like the sort of afternoon that does not need a plan.

Back at the cottage we lit the wood-burner even though it was not particularly cold, simply because it seemed the right thing to do. The smell of burning pine mixed with the scent of the sausages we cooked on the little outdoor grill. We ate outside until the midges got the better of us, then moved indoors for a game of Uno by lamplight. At one point I caught myself checking my phone out of habit, only to realise there was barely a signal. Instead of feeling annoyed I felt oddly grateful; it was as if the place had gently removed the option.

That evening, standing on the porch in the half-light, I thought about how rarely we manage to arrive somewhere and simply stop. The little mishap with the car had already done its job, shaking us out of our usual rush. Looking across the darkening lawn towards the water, I realised that the next few days did not need to be filled with anything more than this slow rhythm of meals, short walks, and early nights.