I'd been driving for hours through the quiet forests of Lappland when I finally spotted the turn for Lycksele Kristineberg. The satnav insisted I had arrived, but the narrow track looked more like someone's driveway than a proper holiday let entrance. I pulled in anyway, only to discover I'd parked nose-first into a snowdrift that the previous guest had clearly left behind. After ten minutes of gentle rocking and a fair bit of muttered encouragement to the hire car, I managed to free myself and park sensibly. My stomach was already growling, so I grabbed the bags and headed inside to see what the kitchen had to offer.

The fridge was empty, of course, but the cupboards held a decent set of pots and a surprisingly sharp knife. I had planned to cook properly that first evening, something hearty with local ingredients. The nearest shop sat just a couple of miles down the road, so I set off again before the light faded completely. Inside the small supermarket I found reindeer sausages, cloudberry jam, and a packet of crispbread that looked promising. I also grabbed some potatoes and a tub of cream, thinking a simple sausage and potato dish would warm me up nicely after the drive.

Back at the cottage the kitchen felt welcoming once the heating kicked in. I chopped the potatoes a bit unevenly and set them boiling while the sausages sizzled in a pan. The cloudberry jam went into a small bowl on the side, though I wasn't entirely sure what to do with it yet. Everything smelled promising until I realised I'd forgotten to buy butter. The sausages released enough fat to keep things moving, but the potatoes ended up a touch dry. Still, sitting at the small table with a plate of food and the view of snow-covered pines outside the window felt surprisingly peaceful. I ate slowly, listening to the quiet.

The next morning I woke early and decided breakfast deserved another attempt. I boiled an egg using the single saucepan and toasted a slice of crispbread over the gas ring with varying success. The yolk ran everywhere when I cut into it, but the combination with a smear of the cloudberry jam turned out oddly pleasant. I sat with my coffee, watching the light change across the clearing, and wondered why I always expect everything to go smoothly on the first day of a trip.

By lunchtime I had decided the local bread from the shop was worth another visit. I walked rather than drove this time, partly to stretch my legs and partly to avoid another parking incident. The shopkeeper nodded when I pointed at the fresh loaves and asked about the sausages again. Back at the cottage I made open sandwiches with thin slices of sausage, a dab of mustard from the jar I'd brought, and more of that jam on the side. It wasn't fancy, but it tasted like the sort of simple food you remember long after the holiday ends.

That evening I tried again with the potatoes, this time adding a splash of the cream and stirring everything together. The result was closer to a proper hash, and I felt quietly pleased with myself. I ate it standing by the window, watching the last of the daylight fade. The cottage was warm, the food was decent, and the only real drama had been that silly snowdrift on arrival.