I had been looking forward to our little break in Arvidsjaur for weeks, so when the train finally pulled into the station I was already picturing a cosy cabin and a proper Swedish supper. The plan was simple: grab our bags, pick up the hire car and head straight to the house on the edge of town. We managed the first two steps without incident, but the third went a bit pear-shaped when I confidently marched us to the wrong car park and spent ten minutes trying to unlock someone else's Volvo with our key fob. By the time we sorted that out and found the right one, the light was fading and my stomach was growling louder than the engine.

The property itself turned out to be a neat wooden chalet with its own little kitchen, which felt like a godsend after the journey. We had decided to self-cater for most of the stay, partly to save a few kronor and partly because the fridge and hob looked genuinely usable. That first evening we nipped into the local supermarket just before closing and came away with fresh salmon, new potatoes, dill and a tub of cloudberry jam that the woman at the till insisted we try. Back at the cabin I managed to over-boil the potatoes and under-season the fish, but the jam saved the meal when we dolloped it onto thick slices of rye bread for pudding.

The next morning we woke to proper winter light and decided breakfast should be an event rather than a rushed bowl of cereal. We walked the short distance into the centre and found a small bakery that sold warm cardamom buns and proper filter coffee in big white mugs. I bought two of each and we sat on a bench outside, watching locals on their way to work while the buns cooled just enough to eat without burning our tongues. Later that day we returned to the same supermarket and this time lingered in the deli section, picking up smoked reindeer, pickled herring and a packet of crispbread that promised to be "extra rustic".

Cooking the reindeer proved another gentle comedy of errors. I had read that it should be seared quickly, but I got distracted chatting and left it a minute too long, so it came out chewier than intended. Still, tucked inside the crispbread with a slick of mustard it tasted far better than it looked, and we finished the lot while sitting at the kitchen table with the window cracked open to let in the cold air.

By the third day I had started to enjoy the rhythm of planning meals around what was available rather than what I thought we should eat. The little market near the main road had a stall selling fresh lingonberries and we bought a punnet, intending to make a sauce to go with some pork chops we had in the fridge. The sauce never quite thickened, but the tart berries cut through the richness nicely and we both agreed it was the best mistake we had made all week.

Looking back, the journey mishap set the tone for everything that followed: small plans going slightly awry but still turning out rather lovely. Each meal became its own little story, and even the burnt bits felt part of the experience rather than failures. By the time we packed up to leave, the kitchen was a happy mess of jars, crumbs and half-used packets, and I realised I had spent more time thinking about what to cook next than I had about anything else.