I have never been so pleased to see a red wooden house in my life. Six hours after leaving Gothenburg, two ferries, one regrettable petrol station hot dog, and a spectacularly ill-judged attempt to overtake a caravan on a narrow bridge, I finally rolled into Faerjestaden on Oeland. The mishap? I had spent the final twenty minutes of the drive absolutely convinced I was staying in Borgholm, which is in fact a solid twenty minutes in the opposite direction. My phone died precisely as I smugly turned toward what I thought was my destination. Cue a sheepish U-turn and a low-battery scramble through my emails at a bus shelter like a confused tourist in my own holiday.

The house itself sits on a quiet residential lane, the sort where every garden seems to contain either a trampoline or a meticulously tended rhubarb patch, sometimes both. Mine was the one with the rhubarb. I found it by process of elimination and the faint smell of someone else's barbecue. The key was in the lockbox exactly where promised, which felt almost suspiciously efficient after my navigational performance.

Stepping inside, the first thing that struck me was the light. The whole place is arranged around windows that seem deliberately positioned to catch the late afternoon sun, which on Oeland in midsummer hangs around with the enthusiasm of a guest who does not realise the party ended hours ago. The living room has that particular Scandinavian quality of being both minimal and deeply comfortable, like someone with excellent taste has quietly removed everything unnecessary without making you feel judged for owning throw cushions.

I made the traditional British error of immediately putting the kettle on before investigating anything else. This meant I discovered the terrace properly only when I wandered outside with my tea, still wearing my driving shoes, and found myself facing a small enclosed garden with a wooden table and a view of nothing more dramatic than neighbouring birch trees and a very distant glimpse of the Kalmar Strait. It was perfect. I stood there like a man who had forgotten what stillness sounded like, which I essentially had.

The kitchen, once I bothered to look, had that reassuring holiday-home completeness where someone has anticipated your incompetence. There was a coffee maker I did not understand, a dishwasher I immediately befriended, and enough glasses to suggest the owners once hosted a party they still remember fondly. I opened every cupboard, as one does, and found a fondue set, three different kinds of cinnamon, and a torch with no batteries. The essentials and the mysteries.

By evening I had established my territory. The sofa with the slightly firmer cushion became mine. The spot on the terrace where the mosquitoes seemed less organised became mine. I had not yet visited the beach at Gronhogen, or cycled to the lighthouse, or done any of the things I had earnestly researched. I had simply arrived, made mistakes, made tea, and sat in someone else's lovely house feeling the particular relief of a journey finally finished.

The sun was still up at half past nine. I was still in my driving shoes. Somewhere, I assumed, my phone was charging and silently accumulating apologetic maps. I did not care. Faerjestaden had me already, and I had not even had breakfast yet.