We set off from the ferry with high hopes, but our sat-nav had other ideas and guided us straight into a narrow residential cul-de-sac just outside Halmstad. After three polite but increasingly baffled locals pointed us the right way, we finally pulled up at the little red wooden house that would be home for the week. The sun was already low, so we dropped our bags and wandered straight into the kitchen to see what we could rustle up. The fridge was bare, of course, so we headed for the nearest supermarket on the edge of town, where the aisles were neatly stocked with crispbread, jars of herring and those little tubs of lingonberry jam that seem to go with everything. Back at the house we chopped onions and potatoes, fried up some sausages from the deli counter and called it our first proper Swedish supper, eaten at the garden table while midges tried their luck around the citronella candle.

Next morning the local market in the square was already busy. We bought fresh rye bread still warm from the oven, a wedge of Vaesterbotten cheese and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like proper summer. The plan had been a simple picnic, yet somehow the strawberries never made it past the car park. By the time we got back we were both peckish again, so I tried my hand at a quick fry-up using the new ingredients. The cheese melted beautifully over the bread, but I managed to over-toast one side and the smoke alarm gave a single polite beep before I waved a tea towel at it. We ate standing at the counter anyway, laughing at how something so basic could taste so good when the ingredients were this fresh.

By the third day we had fallen into a rhythm: morning coffee on the deck, a stroll to the nearby bakery for cardamom buns, then back to the kitchen to experiment. One evening I attempted a simple fish soup with cod from the harbour stall and cream from the farm shop down the lane. It came out thicker than intended, more of a stew really, but we mopped it up with more of that rye bread and decided it was a keeper. The house fridge was small, so we shopped little and often, which meant we never ran out of excuses to pop back into town for another pastry or a tub of skyr to have with the last of the strawberries.

Looking back, those first few days were less about grand sightseeing and more about learning how to shop and cook like locals. I had pictured myself as some sort of relaxed holiday chef, yet most of our meals were simple, slightly improvised affairs that still felt special because everything came from just around the corner. By the end of the week the mishaps with the toaster and the over-thick soup had become the stories we told each other at breakfast, small reminders that sometimes the best part of a trip is just figuring out how to feed yourselves well in a new place.