We set off from the airport with the sat nav promising a straightforward hour and a half to Oeverkalix, but the first sign we were in proper Lapland came when the road turned into a single track edged by snowbanks higher than the car roof. My partner laughed and said the scenery looked like a Christmas card, which was fair until our little hatchback hit a patch of black ice and we did a slow, almost polite pirouette into a drift. No harm done, just a lot of giggling while we dug ourselves out with a plastic ice scraper and the spare pair of gloves. By the time we rolled up the short drive to the cottage, our cheeks were pink and we felt as though the holiday had already begun.

The place itself sat quietly among tall pines, a simple wooden house with a red-painted porch that looked almost too neat against the white ground. Inside, the warmth hit us straight away, the sort of gentle heat that comes from a well-stoked wood burner rather than a noisy radiator. We kicked off our boots in the little hallway and padded around in socks, claiming the bedrooms and marvelling at how the living room windows framed nothing but trees and sky. The kitchen was small but perfectly stocked with the basics, and we made tea straight away, standing by the sink while the kettle hissed and the children claimed the sofa for a game of cards.

That first afternoon we did very little except wander the immediate garden, kicking up fresh snow and spotting a shy red squirrel that darted along the fence. Later we lit the fire properly and cooked a simple pasta on the hob, the smell mixing with wood smoke in a way that felt instantly homely. The children were already talking about building a snowman in the morning, and we adults were content to sit with books and the occasional glance out at the darkening sky. It struck me, as the light faded, how rare it is to arrive somewhere and feel no urge to rush off anywhere else. The mishap on the road had somehow set the tone: slow down, laugh at the small things, and let the quiet do the rest.