We set off from Gothenburg in high spirits, convinced we had the route to Vallda sorted, only to end up circling the same roundabout twice because someone had insisted the sat nav knew best. By the time we pulled up at the little house, the sun was already high and the mishap felt like the perfect excuse to stop rushing. The place sat quietly among pines and low grass, a simple wooden building with a deck that caught the afternoon light just right. We carried the bags in, kicked off our shoes, and that was pretty much the plan sorted for the rest of the day.

The next morning started slowly and stayed that way. I made coffee in the small kitchen and took it outside, where the wooden table was already warm. From there the view was mostly trees and a strip of sky, with the occasional bird hopping along the railing. We had no real list of things to do, which suited us both. After breakfast we wandered down the lane towards the sea, not really aiming for anywhere in particular, just following the sound of waves until we reached a stretch of sand that felt almost private. We stayed for an hour or so, shoes off, toes in the shallows, before drifting back when the sun got a bit strong.

Most of the holiday carried on in the same gentle rhythm. Mornings were for sitting on the deck with a book, afternoons for short walks along the nearby paths or a lazy drive to the small supermarket in Vallda for bread and whatever looked good for dinner. The house itself encouraged doing very little. Its windows let in plenty of light, so even indoors felt connected to the weather outside. One afternoon I found myself watching a squirrel on the grass for far longer than I would normally admit, and it struck me how rarely I give myself permission to be that still.

We did make it to a tiny cafe a couple of miles away one lunchtime, mostly because the smell of cinnamon buns drifted out as we passed. We sat outside with coffee and shared a bun that was gone far too quickly, then wandered back without any other stops. The evenings were the best part. We lit the barbecue on the deck, ate slowly, and watched the light fade through the trees. Conversation stayed light, often circling back to how good it felt not to have a schedule.

By the end of the week I realised the small wrong turn on the first day had set the tone for everything that followed. Without a strict plan we had simply let the days unfold, and that had turned out to be exactly what we needed.