We set off from Ostersund in good spirits, the boot packed with enough snacks to feed a small army, and the sat nav promising a straightforward hour and a half to Vemdalen. Ten minutes after turning onto the smaller road the snow started, light at first, then enough to make the windscreen wipers work for their money. My partner decided the best way to deal with it was to open the window a crack for "better visibility," which naturally resulted in a face full of icy flakes and a very soggy map on her lap. We both laughed so hard the car nearly drifted onto the verge, and by the time we pulled up outside the little red cottage we were already in holiday mode.

The house sat at the end of a short track, pine trees crowding close on three sides and a neat stack of logs by the door. Inside it felt instantly welcoming, all pale wood walls, a big corner sofa and that faint smell of wood smoke that seems to cling to every Swedish cottage. We dropped our bags, flicked on the lights and wandered through to the kitchen where a proper coffee machine sat waiting like an old friend. While the kettle bubbled I stepped out onto the small deck and watched the last of the daylight fade behind the hills; the quiet was so complete I could hear the snow settling on the roof.

Next morning we woke to clear skies and a light dusting of fresh powder on the garden bench. After a lazy breakfast of cinnamon buns from the village shop we decided to explore on foot rather than rush straight to the slopes. A short path behind the cottage led us past a frozen stream and up a gentle slope where the kids promptly started rolling snowballs the size of footballs. We ended up building a lopsided snowman with a twig for a nose and my old woolly hat on top, then stood back admiring our handiwork like proud parents at sports day.

By midday the sun had warmed the wooden deck enough for us to sit outside with coffee and watch the occasional skier gliding along the cross-country tracks that run just beyond the trees. It felt wonderfully ordinary, the sort of day where nothing much happens and that is exactly the point. Later we lit the wood burner, played a few rounds of cards at the kitchen table and listened to the crackle of logs while the children dozed on the sofa. I caught myself thinking how rarely we manage this kind of unhurried time together, how easy it is to forget the simple pleasure of being somewhere quiet with nowhere else to be.

By the time we turned in that first night the cottage already felt like ours. The snow had started again, soft and steady against the windows, and as I lay listening to the gentle hush I realised the journey mishap had set the tone perfectly, reminding us that the best holidays often begin with a bit of unplanned laughter and a willingness to slow right down.