The thing about driving onto Oland is that you absolutely know you've left mainland Sweden behind, and yet somehow I still managed to miss the bridge entirely. There I was, confidently following what I thought was the road to Kalmar, only to find myself in a Morrison's-sized car park outside a furniture shop, wondering why the sat nav had developed such a sudden passion for flat-pack shelving. My wife gave me that look. You know the one. The children had already begun the backseat referendum on whether Dad should be allowed to navigate ever again.

Twenty minutes of dignified reversal later, we finally crossed the Oland Bridge properly, and I must say the view almost made my navigational humiliation worthwhile. The Baltic stretches out on either side like someone has ironed the sea flat, and there is something properly thrilling about driving across water without actually getting wet. Unless you count the perspiration of a man who has just been thoroughly outwitted by a Swedish retail park.

Stenninge sits on the eastern side of the island, not far from the village of Boda, and the approach tells you everything you need to know about the pace of life here. Narrow lanes, fields that seem to roll on forever, and the occasional wooden farmhouse painted in that particular Falun red that makes everything look like it belongs on a biscuit tin. We arrived in late afternoon, which in a Swedish July means the sun is still behaving as though it has only just got out of bed.

The cottage itself is one of those traditional Oland stone affairs, the type that looks as though it has grown directly out of the landscape rather than been built upon it. Low ceilings, thick walls, and a general atmosphere of having seen off several centuries without much complaint. I immediately cracked my head on a doorframe, which my family found hilarious and which I chose to interpret as the house's way of administering a gentle humility check. Welcome, it seemed to say, but do mind your manners.

The garden slopes down toward proper countryside, and within approximately four minutes of arrival my youngest had located a football and was attempting to recreate the World Cup in a space better suited to crown green bowls. The rest of us stood on the terrace with cups of tea that tasted better than any tea has a right to, simply because of where we were drinking it. There is something almost embarrassingly satisfying about this kind of holiday, the sort where your biggest ambition is to finish your drink before it goes cold.

What struck me most, I think, was the particular quality of the quiet. Not silence exactly, because there were birds and distant agricultural machinery and the occasional triumphant shout from a child who had just scored an imaginary goal against Brazil. But a quiet that feels generous, that gives you room to remember how to do nothing without feeling guilty about it. I had brought three books, a crossword puzzle book, and vague intentions of being productive in some undefined way. By evening I had achieved precisely none of this and felt absolutely marvellous about it.

We walked down to the nearby coast as the light began to stretch and golden, which in these latitudes takes its sweet time about happening. The limestone pavement shelves gently into water so clear you can watch the seaweed doing whatever it is seaweed does when it thinks nobody is watching. My wife paddled. I took photographs that will never do it justice. The children threw stones with that particular solemn concentration children bring to such matters.

Dinner was a simple affair, cobbled together from the sort of supplies you buy when everything in the supermarket is written in Swedish and you are too proud to use your translation app. We ate outside as the evening warmth lingered, and I found myself reflecting on how rarely I allow myself this kind of unstructured time. There is always something that needs doing, some obligation or deadline or household task that presents itself as urgent. Here, the only urgency was whether to open another bottle of the local beer before or after the sun finally dipped below the horizon.

I chose before, obviously. Some decisions make themselves.