I have never been particularly gifted at reading ferry timetables, a fact that became embarrassingly clear somewhere between Kalmar and the Oland bridge. There I sat, smug as anything, having navigated Swedish motorways with only mild panic, only to discover I had confused the summer sailing schedule with the winter one. The ferry I planned to catch did not exist. The actual bridge, perfectly visible and entirely free, was a kilometre to my left. My passenger, who shall remain nameless but was definitely my partner, found this hilarious for approximately the remaining twenty minutes of our journey.

Borgholm greeted us with that particular brightness of Baltic light that makes everything look slightly overexposed. Our holiday home sat on the edge of town, a proper wooden Swedish affair with a deck that practically demanded bare feet and a cold beer. I obliged on both counts within minutes of arrival, still slightly giddy from my navigational triumph.

The weather, when we woke the next morning, was doing that deceptive Scandinavian thing where the sky looks innocent and the thermometer lies. We had packed for walking, serious coastal walking, and the sunshine pouring through the windows felt like permission. We set off towards the northern shore with light rucksacks, inadequate water, and the confidence of people who had not yet met Oland's particular brand of coastal wind.

The path from Borgholm towards the castle ruins is properly beautiful, I will give it that. Limestone pavement underfoot, sea pinks nodding in whatever breeze exists, and the constant presence of water to your left. We made good time, perhaps too good, passing other walkers with the subtle competitiveness of people who have overdone their breakfast. The castle itself, perched on its little hill, offered shelter from what had become a surprisingly persistent wind. We ate our sandwiches in the lee of a crumbling wall and congratulated ourselves on choosing such a magnificent day.

The weather turned somewhere between the castle and our planned turnaround point. Not dramatically, nothing cinematic, just a gradual thickening of cloud and a drop in temperature that made my thin walking shirt feel suddenly ridiculous. The sunshine had been a trick, a temporary loan. We pressed on for another mile, because stubbornness is a form of exercise too, before admitting that the clear blue morning had become something requiring actual layers.

The walk back was quicker, partly because we were walking with purpose now, partly because I had developed that particular British embarrassment about being underdressed in inappropriate conditions. We passed the same walkers from earlier, now smug in their proper jackets, and I avoided eye contact with the dedication of a man who knows he has been bested by meteorology.

That evening, back on the deck with borrowed blankets and something warming from the kitchen, I watched the sky clear again as if nothing had happened. The Baltic glittered, innocent and blue, and I understood something about island weather that I suppose island people know instinctively. It is not personal, this changeability, though it feels it when you are underdressed and two miles from your front door.

We spent the remaining days walking more carefully, carrying more than we thought necessary, learning to read the particular signs of Oland's shifting moods. The coastal paths rewarded this caution properly, revealing themselves in sections that morning sunshine would have hidden behind glare and haste. There is something to be said for walking into a headwind, something about attention and presence that fair weather does not require.

I still cannot read ferry timetables reliably. But I can now pack a rucksack with the paranoia of a man who has been taught by experience, and there is wisdom in that, however expensively acquired.