I had barely pulled into the gravel drive at our little Ullared cottage when the first mishap struck. The satnav cheerfully announced arrival while I was still reversing, so the back bumper kissed the wooden post with a gentle crunch that made my partner wince and the dog bark once in solidarity. Nothing dramatic, just enough to set the tone that this break was going to be relaxed rather than polished. We shrugged, unloaded the bags, and immediately turned our attention to the kitchen because hunger had arrived with us.

The cottage fridge was already stocked with the basics we had ordered ahead, but the real fun began when we realised we had forgotten milk. A quick walk into the centre of Ullared solved that in minutes; the supermarket there is the sort of place where locals pop in for everything from fresh bread to pickled herring. We came back with a paper bag of cardamom buns still warm from the bakery counter and a packet of crispbread that promised to be perfect with cheese later.

By the time we had unpacked, the light outside had turned that soft Swedish evening gold, so we decided to cook rather than go out. The kitchen was compact but well equipped, and after a slightly chaotic attempt at Swedish meatballs using a recipe I had saved on my phone, we sat at the little table with plates that looked more ambitious than they tasted. The lingonberry jam saved us, cutting through the dryness, and we laughed about how the dog had managed to steal a cooling meatball when our backs were turned.

The next morning we wandered back to the market stalls near the supermarket for fresh produce. A woman selling strawberries chatted away in English once she heard our accents, recommending a local honey to go with them. We bought far too many berries, plus some smoked salmon and a crusty loaf, then headed back to the cottage with plans for an open sandwich lunch on the patio. The salmon was excellent, but my attempt to slice the bread evenly resulted in several lopsided doorstops that still tasted brilliant once topped.

By the second evening we had settled into a rhythm of simple cooking. One night it was pasta with a quick tomato and sausage sauce using ingredients from the market; another it was grilled halloumi and vegetables that we managed not to burn. We kept returning to the same bakery for those cardamom buns, declaring them essential research rather than indulgence. Between meals we sat outside with coffee, watching the light change and feeling oddly content with how little we had done.

Looking back, that minor bumper tap on arrival feels like the perfect symbol for the trip so far. We came expecting a polished escape but found ourselves happiest when things were slightly imperfect, especially when those imperfections involved extra visits to the bakery or another round of slightly overcooked meatballs. It is the sort of place that rewards slowing down and paying attention to what is right in front of you, plate by plate.