I have never been particularly good with directions, which is how I found myself standing in a Borgholm car park at half past nine in the evening, arguing with a sat nav that had apparently given up on me entirely. The journey from Kalmar had been straightforward enough, or so I thought, until I took what I was certain was a scenic shortcut and ended up driving in a complete circle past the same field of sheep three times. The sheep, I am convinced, were judging me.

By the time I actually located the holiday home, tucked down a gravel track just outside Borgholm proper, I was too frazzled to notice much beyond the fact that the key was where promised and the lights worked. I dumped my bags, made a cup of tea that tasted mostly of relief, and fell into bed without so much as glancing out the window.

Morning, however, was an entirely different affair. I woke to proper sunshine streaming through thin curtains and the sort of silence that makes you realise how much noise your own life normally contains. Stepping outside with that first cup of tea, I discovered I had completely missed the obvious the night before: a small wooden deck, a garden that needed no tending to look lovely, and beyond it, nothing but fields rolling down toward the coast. The Kalmar Strait glimmered in the distance like someone had left a mirror lying about. I stood there in my ridiculous slippers, feeling rather pleased with my accidental competence at booking somewhere decent.

The house itself was simple in the best Swedish fashion, all clean lines and practical comfort, with a kitchen that actually contained sharp knives, a rarity in holiday lets. But it was the location that gradually revealed itself as the real find. I had planned, in that vague way one does, to visit Borgholm Castle, perhaps stroll the harbour, do the expected things. Instead, on that first morning, I wandered off in entirely the wrong direction and found something better.

A path I assumed led to the main road actually curved away through low scrub and scattered oak trees, the kind of terrain Oland is known for, this strange limestone landscape that feels more Mediterranean than Scandinavian on a good day. The path kept going, narrowing, becoming less certain of itself. I should have turned back. I did not turn back.

What I found was a small cove, barely deserving the name, just a notch in the rocky coastline where the water had worn smooth shelves of stone. A single weathered bench faced the strait, positioned by someone who understood exactly where to place it. No sign explained it, no path properly led there, and I sat for an hour watching the ferry trundle between Oland and the mainland, feeling smug about my discovery until a local dog walker appeared and I realised people did know about it, they simply had not made a fuss.

That set the pattern for the week. Getting lost became the point. I found a bakery in Borgholm's back streets by taking a wrong turn looking for the tourist office, the sort of place with no English menu and pastries that demanded pointing and hopeful smiling. I discovered a tiny museum attached to a church, open two afternoons a week, containing nothing more dramatic than old photographs of island life, but I spent longer there than I would have at any grand attraction, chatting with the volunteer who clearly had nowhere else she would rather be.

The holiday home became my base for these accidental expeditions, its reliable simplicity a contrast to the mild uncertainty of each day's wandering. I never did make it to the castle properly, though I saw it from enough unexpected angles to feel acquainted. The sheep, I noted with satisfaction, remained unencountered.

On my final evening, I found the cove again without difficulty, which felt slightly like cheating. I sat on that same bench as the light went, already planning how I might get lost somewhere else entirely next time, already knowing I would not remember the way.