I'd never been to Oland before, and if I'm honest, I wasn't entirely sure where it was on a map. Somewhere off the southeast coast of Sweden, I reckoned, probably windy, definitely flat. My partner had booked Stenninge Sandvik after a few too many glasses of wine one evening, waving her phone at me with a triumphant grin. "Beachfront cottage," she announced. "We'll walk the coast. It'll be glorious."

The journey from Kalmar involved a bridge so long I genuinely thought we'd taken a wrong turn and were heading to Denmark. Then came the small mishap. We'd stopped at a supermarket in Borgholm for supplies, and in my enthusiasm for the outdoor life I'd packed three different types of sausage, a family-sized bag of crisps, and somehow forgotten to buy any toilet roll. Classic. We discovered this approximately seven minutes after arriving at the cottage, standing in the bathroom with the realisation dawning slowly, then rapidly. There was nothing for it but a brisk walk back to the car and a slightly sheepish return to the nearest village shop.

But that first glimpse of Stenninge Sandvik made the humiliation worthwhile. The cottage sat low and unassuming among the grasses, weathered wood blending into the landscape like it had grown there. Beyond it, the Baltic stretched out, that particular silvery-grey you only get in these northern waters. The air smelled of salt and pine and something else I couldn't place, something clean and ancient.

We'd planned a proper coastal hike for the afternoon, a long loop south towards the nature reserve. The weather had other ideas. We'd barely laced our boots when the sky turned from promising blue to a peculiar yellow-grey, and the wind arrived with what I can only describe as theatrical aggression. My optimistic linen shirt, chosen for warm-weather adventuring, became instantly ridiculous. Within minutes I was clutching it around me like a man who'd misread the entire concept of Scandinavia.

The thing about Oland, we discovered, is that the weather doesn't merely change. It performs. We'd get twenty minutes of genuine warmth, enough to convince us to shed layers and press on along the rocky shore, then the wind would whip round from a different quarter entirely and we'd be fumbling for jackets while sand worked its way into every pocket and crevice. The limestone pavement along the coast made for glorious walking when the sun emerged, little pools glinting with trapped seawater, the odd hardy flower pushing through cracks. Then a cloud would pass and suddenly we were two idiots in a minor gale, leaning into the wind like amateur mountaineers.

We adapted, of course. Became weather watchers, scanning horizons with the intensity of fishermen. Our hikes shortened, became more opportunistic. A good hour south when the sun held, then a tactical retreat to the cottage when the sky threatened. We learned the particular pleasure of a thermos drunk in a sheltered hollow, backs against warm rock, watching the weather march past us out to sea.

By day three I'd abandoned any pretence of sartorial sense and was wearing practically everything I'd brought, layered like a particularly unfashionable onion. My partner found this hilarious, photographing me against various dramatic backdrops, the Baltic wind sculpting my hair into something approaching modern art. I didn't mind. There's a particular freedom in looking ridiculous, in letting the place dictate terms rather than fighting it.

The warm-weather adventures we'd imagined became something else entirely, something better perhaps. We walked when we could, properly walked, feeling the particular give of coastal grass underfoot, spotting the occasional dart of a bird we couldn't name. Then we'd stop, hunker down, let the weather have its moment. I found myself strangely content with this rhythm, this negotiation between human plan and elemental reality. Perhaps that's what Oland teaches you, if you let it. The island's been here long enough to know that urgency is largely illusion.

Our final morning brought the most beautiful walk of all, a stillness we'd almost stopped hoping for. The limestone gleamed pale in early sun, the water barely rippled, and we covered miles almost without noticing, reluctant to turn back. Even then, a bank of cloud sat patient on the horizon, waiting its turn.

I left Stenninge Sandvik with sand in my boots, windburn on my cheeks, and a newfound respect for toilet roll planning. Also, I think, a slightly altered sense of what a holiday ought to be. Not the pursuit of perfect conditions, but something more accommodating, more responsive. We walked the coast as best we could, took what the weather offered, laughed at ourselves more than once. It was, in its uneven, windblown way, absolutely glorious.