We set off from the ferry with high hopes and a bag of Swedish snacks that promptly exploded across the back seat when my partner took a corner too sharply. By the time we reached Skummeslovsstrand the car smelled faintly of lingonberry jam and we were both laughing too hard to mind. The little red cottage sat just behind the dunes, its deck already catching the late afternoon sun, and I felt that first proper holiday exhale settle in my chest.

Our plan had been simple: drive straight to the nearest supermarket, stock up on basics and cook something sensible. Instead we found ourselves lured by the smell of fresh cinnamon buns from a roadside stall near the beach car park. One bun turned into four, and suddenly the shopping list looked far less urgent. We did eventually make it to the local ICA, where I spent an embarrassing amount of time debating which brand of crispbread would travel best back to the cottage. The cashier smiled politely while I tried, and failed, to pronounce “knaeckebroed” without sounding like I was clearing my throat.

Back at the house the kitchen proved small but perfectly formed, with a proper little oven and enough plates for two people who had already decided seconds were non-negotiable. We unpacked our slightly squashed buns and a packet of gravlax we had grabbed on impulse. The first meal was nothing more than open sandwiches eaten on the deck while watching the last swimmers wander back from the sea. It tasted better than anything we had planned.

The next morning we tried to be organised. We bought eggs, potatoes and some dill at the little market stall that pops up near the harbour on Thursdays. My attempt at roesti ended with one patty looking suspiciously like a pancake and the other resembling scrambled egg. We ate them anyway, topped with a heroic amount of smoked salmon from the same stall. The coffee, brewed in the slightly temperamental machine that came with the cottage, tasted like victory.

By the third evening we had accepted that self-catering here was less about precision and more about good ingredients meeting low expectations. We walked the short path to the beach kiosk for takeaway fish and chips one night, then felt virtuous enough to attempt a proper Swedish meatballs recipe the next. The meatballs were roundish, the gravy was lumpy, and we both agreed it was the best thing we had eaten all week. Sitting on the deck afterwards, watching the light linger over the water, I realised the mishap with the jam had set the tone for everything else. Nothing had gone quite to plan, yet the food, the quiet beach and the simple cottage had made the whole trip feel exactly right.