We set off for our week at the Torup cottage in Halland with high hopes and a boot full of supermarket bags, convinced we had everything sorted. Halfway along the quiet lane the satnav decided to reroute us down what looked like a tractor track, and before I knew it we were wedged between two low branches with the wing mirror hanging by a thread. It took ten minutes of reversing, swearing under my breath and a helpful farmer with a ladder before we were free, but by then the milk had split and the bread was squashed flat.

Still, the cottage itself looked perfect when we finally pulled in, white walls glowing in the late sun and a small garden already dotted with wild strawberries. After unpacking we headed straight for the kitchen, keen to make use of the hob and the decent sized fridge. The first night we tried a simple pasta with local prawns we had picked up from a roadside stall near Torup village, but I managed to overcook the garlic until it turned bitter and the whole dish tasted faintly of burnt toast. We ate it anyway, laughing as we scraped the black bits into the bin and promised ourselves we would do better tomorrow.

The next morning we wandered into the small market square in Torup itself, no more than a couple of minutes drive away. Stalls offered fresh rye bread, smoked mackerel and jars of lingonberry jam that caught the light like rubies. We bought far too much and lugged it back, planning a proper Swedish breakfast. I attempted crispbread with cheese and slices of the mackerel, only to discover I had forgotten butter entirely. My partner simply spread jam on the dry bread and declared it an experimental open sandwich, which somehow made it taste better.

By the third evening we felt more confident and decided to cook a proper dinner using the herbs growing in a pot by the back door. The dill went into a quick sauce for some salmon fillets from the village shop, and we boiled new potatoes until they were just right. The meal turned out surprisingly good, though I still managed to splash dill sauce down my shirt while reaching for the salt. Sitting at the little wooden table with the windows open to the evening air, it struck me how much of the holiday was already being measured in meals rather than miles. The mishap on the lane felt distant now, replaced by the quiet rhythm of choosing what to cook next and whether we had enough lingonberry jam left for breakfast.