We set off from Gothenburg in good spirits, the satnav promising a straightforward hour and a half down the E6. Somewhere near Kungsbacka my partner decided the paper map would be more reliable, which was our first mistake. Ten minutes later we were on a single-track lane lined with birch trees, the car bouncing over roots while a tractor driver watched us with mild amusement. By the time we reached the red wooden house in Tvaaker we were both laughing and slightly lost, but the sun was already high and the air smelled of warm grass.

The cottage sat at the end of a gravel track, surrounded by a neat lawn that sloped gently toward a low fence. A couple of deckchairs waited on the veranda as though they had been expecting us all morning. We unloaded the bags, opened every window, and let the breeze move through the rooms. The kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with the usual Swedish touches: a cafetiere, decent mugs, and a bowl already filled with apples from the garden. Outside, a hammock hung between two apple trees, and that was where the rest of the afternoon disappeared.

We spent the next few days doing almost nothing at all. Mornings began with coffee on the steps, watching bees work their way along the lavender border. After that we would wander down the lane toward the village shop, stopping to read the handwritten signs for eggs and honey. The shop itself was tiny, run by an older couple who asked where we were from and then recommended the best cinnamon buns in Halland. We bought two each and ate them on a bench by the churchyard, crumbs scattering for the sparrows.

Back at the house the hammock became our headquarters. I read two paperbacks in three days, the kind I had been meaning to finish for years. My partner dozed with a cap over his face, occasionally muttering about putting the kettle on and never quite managing it. The only real plan we made was to walk the forest path behind the property, which took us through pine and heather to a small lake where we sat on a log and skimmed stones until our arms ached. We returned sunburnt and content, stopping only to collect a few wild strawberries that tasted sharper than anything from a supermarket.

Evenings were simple. We cooked pasta on the little stove, drank local beer from the shop, and watched the light linger until nearly ten. One night we dragged the garden chairs onto the grass and counted bats flickering above the roof. I found myself thinking how rarely we allow whole days to pass without a list or a schedule. Here, the absence of plans felt like the actual holiday.

By the final morning the car was already packed, yet neither of us was in a hurry to leave. We lingered on the veranda with one last coffee, listening to the blackbirds. The journey home would be straightforward this time, but part of me hoped we might take a wrong turn again, just for the excuse to stay a little longer.