I had only just pulled off the E6 when the satnav decided to play its own little joke on me. Instead of guiding me straight to the cottage near Skummeslovsstrand, it sent me down a gravel track that narrowed until the wing mirrors were brushing the pine branches. By the time I reversed out and found the proper turning, the first fat drops of rain were already spotting the windscreen. So much for my grand plan of an evening stroll along the shore.

The cottage itself was exactly what I had pictured from the photos, a low wooden house tucked behind a low dune with a deck that looked straight out onto the Kattegat. I dropped my bag inside, made a quick cup of tea, and watched the weather roll in from the kitchen window. The forecast had promised sun, yet the clouds were already turning the sea a moody grey. I told myself it was only a shower and that tomorrow would be better, then spent the evening reading on the sofa while the rain tapped on the roof.

The next morning the sky had cleared enough for me to lace up my boots and head out along the coastal path that runs right past the house. The sand was still damp from the night before, but the air felt fresh and the temperature had climbed nicely. I walked south first, following the line of low dunes and the occasional wooden walkway that keeps feet out of the marram grass. Every so often a bench appeared, perfectly placed for a sit-down and a look at the waves. I met a couple of locals out with their dogs and we exchanged the usual nods and comments about the changeable Swedish summer.

By midday the sun had grown properly warm, so I turned back and decided to keep going north instead. The path here felt wilder, with patches of heather and the occasional rocky outcrop where the tide had carved small pools. I stopped to watch a heron lift off from one of them and nearly lost my footing on a slippery stone. Nothing dramatic, just enough to remind me that dry feet are never guaranteed on a coastal walk, even in July. I carried on until the path met a small car park and then looped back through the pinewoods that separate the beach from the road.

The weather had other ideas again by late afternoon. A brisk wind picked up and the clouds began to gather once more, so I cut the walk short and headed inland along a quiet cycle track that runs parallel to the shore. It felt good to stretch the legs without worrying about sand in my shoes. Back at the cottage I sat on the deck with a cold drink, watching the light shift across the water while I dried my socks on the railing. It struck me then that the best part of the day had not been the longest stretch of path or the sunniest moment, but the simple fact that I had kept moving and let the coast decide the pace. Sometimes the mishaps and the quick changes are what make you notice the place properly.