We set off from Gothenburg in high spirits, the satnav promising an easy run down to Fegen, yet somehow managed to miss the turning for the last stretch and ended up on a gravel track that narrowed until the wing mirrors brushed the pines. By the time we reversed out and found the right lane my pride was dented and the dog was giving me that look she saves for truly questionable decisions. Still, the little wooden house appeared through the trees like a reward, its red paint glowing against the late-afternoon light and the lake glinting just beyond the garden.

The owners had left the key in the usual spot under the plant pot, and stepping inside felt instantly calm: pale floors, a couple of well-worn sofas, and that faint scent of woodsmoke that seems to cling to every Swedish cottage. We dumped the bags, opened every window, and immediately decided nothing else needed doing that day.

The next morning began with coffee on the deck while the mist lifted off the water. A neighbour strolled past with his spaniel and we exchanged the sort of easy nod that passes for conversation when everyone is on holiday time. Later we wandered the short path to the village shop, bought cinnamon buns still warm from the oven and a newspaper we never quite got round to reading. Back at the house the sun had found the best corner of the lawn, so we dragged the striped deckchairs over and stayed there until the shadows lengthened.

Afternoons drifted in much the same way. One day I tried to start a book I had been meaning to finish for months; by chapter three the warmth and the gentle lap of water against the jetty had done their work and I woke with the pages stuck to my cheek. Another afternoon we borrowed the rowing boat that came with the house and went nowhere in particular, just far enough to watch the swallows skim the surface. When the breeze picked up we headed back, tied up, and rewarded ourselves with cold lemonade that tasted faintly of the mint we had crushed into it.

What surprised me most was how little we missed having plans. Normally I feel the need to tick off sights or walks, yet here the simple rhythm of sun, shade and the occasional dip in the lake felt like enough. Even the dog seemed content to stretch out on the jetty, occasionally lifting her head when a fish jumped. By the end of the week the mishap on the gravel track felt like a distant memory, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of having done almost nothing and enjoyed every minute of it.