We set off from Ostersund airport in high spirits, the hire car loaded with bags and the usual snacks for the drive north into Jamtland. The satnav was behaving itself until we decided to take what looked like a handy shortcut through the forest. Twenty minutes later we were on a gravel track that narrowed alarmingly, and I managed to clip a low branch that left a neat pine-needle moustache across the windscreen. We laughed it off, but by the time we found the right turning to the husa I was already promising my partner I would stick to proper roads from then on.

The cottage sat at the end of its own short drive, a red-painted wooden house with white trim that looked exactly like the pictures, only smaller and somehow cosier. Smoke drifted from the chimney even though it was only early afternoon, and the birch trees around the clearing were just starting to turn. Our boys tumbled out of the car before I had even pulled the handbrake, racing straight to the little jetty that led onto the lake. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the low hills on the far side, and the only sound was a woodpecker somewhere in the trees behind us.

Inside, the husa felt instantly welcoming. The living room had a big wood-burner already laid ready, a couple of well-worn sofas, and a dining table that could easily seat six. Upstairs the bedrooms were simple but spotlessly clean, with crisp white linen and those thick Swedish duvets that make you want to climb straight in for a nap. The kitchen was stocked with proper plates and pans rather than the flimsy stuff you sometimes get, and someone had left a jar of local lingonberry jam on the counter with a note wishing us a good stay.

We spent the rest of that first afternoon doing very little. The children found a rope swing at the edge of the garden and spent an hour taking turns, their laughter carrying across the water. My partner and I sat on the deck with coffee, watching a pair of ducks paddle past and feeling the quiet settle around us. It was the sort of afternoon that makes you realise how rarely you actually stop, and I found myself thinking that perhaps the branch incident had been a useful reminder to slow down before we even arrived.

By evening the temperature had dropped and we lit the fire, the smell of burning birch filling the room. We cooked sausages on the little stove and ate them at the table with the jam we had found earlier. Outside it grew dark early, the way it does in autumn up here, and through the window we could see the first stars appearing over the lake. The boys were already yawning by eight o'clock, and once they were tucked in we sat for a while longer, listening to the crackle of the logs and the occasional creak of the wooden walls settling for the night.

It felt like the start of a proper family break, the kind where nothing much happens and that is exactly the point.